The Strong Interaction
by CoonFluxCan
Summary: The strange illness Garrosh Hellscream is plagued with is no illness at all, but a curse that binds him with Finnall Goldensword; known by a few as the bastard Half-elf daughter of Daelin Proudmoore. The curse delays Garrosh's intended takeover of Kalimdor, and is an undeserved punishment for Finnall.
1. F S D

Chapter one

**Freaky Slime Day**

The want for carnage made Garrosh's blood boil, forcing him to shift around his chair in the search of comfort. Cursing with frustration the Warchief skimmed through a mess of papers on his desk. Mundane cream coloured parchment full of inky words made his eyes go fuzzy until they were drawn to a smear of glowing white ink, shimmering on a small black envelope, spelling out his name in a painstakingly elegant script no Orc he knew but Thrall seemed to possess. Garrosh snatched it up and thought nothing of it when he slid a thick black nail through the tiny white wax seal that bore no mark.

The letter was on thin cloth-like parchment, folded up in such a way as to be unnecessarily difficult to unravel. Garroshs' hands were large, as were all Orc shakers, but he somehow was deft enough not to tear it.

_A gift from the powers may seem like a curse,_

_A woman in red must quench your war thirst._

_Neither can survive if one should die,_

_The tether holds strong until an act called divine._

_Words above actions will bring you your peace,_

_A connection so strong it will seem like a feast._

Garrosh read these words over thrice, his eyes narrowing more and more after each reading. He flipped the parchment over, but it wasn't signed; there was no way for him to pike the head responsible for wasting his time with such ridiculous words. The hand which clenched the note became a hard fist, crumpling the thin parchment into a puff of cotton. If Garrosh were a shaman, (which thank his ancestors he was not) the writer would have gone up in flames from the mere force of ill will that he wished upon them.

Garrosh tossed the letter behind him as if it were an plea for a donation, and then made a sound similar to a bear being stoned. Feeling pressed for time only added to his bad humour; there was to be a mustering of some of the Horde's most important minds in a few days' time. Garrosh felt he had enough on his plate; without having to worry about the sordid demands of the Blood Elves. Garrosh knew he ought to get a scholarly Elf to do these things for him while he set his mind on the bigger ailments for his people, such as the Alliance dogs, and if Sylvanas didn't smell like the meat between teeth he would have gladly given the treacherous, conniving sack of death the stack of parchement with what was supposed to be reservedly important documents. Garrosh groaned and buried his face in his hands for a few moments, then using a mighty arm he swept the papers from his desk and onto the floor. Standing up to his full height, he stomped out of the room to the direction of the training pitch.

The Horde and the Alliance were on the brink of war, all knew this. Once Theramore was destroyed Wrynn would be in his rightful place on his knees. Kalimdor would become nothing less than a symbol of the Horde's might. There would be battle, there would be blood, and there would be an ultimate victory, this time for the Horde! Garrosh was eager for this; it was high time that the Alliance got what was coming to them, and the Orc's strength was rewarded with their keep. Kalimdor was as good as his.

Once outside in the blistering desert heat, Garrosh was accosted by his adviser Eitrigg. He could barely suppress the urge to roll his eyes, and though he did nothing to outwardly acknowledge the old Orcs presence he did stop to listen.

"Where are you going Warcheif, I left you a stack of documents that need your signature?"

"Bah! I have no intention of wasting a day like this, cooped up in the hold, Eitrigg!"

, "You are off to the pitch again." Eitrigg stated, raising a bushy grey eyebrow sternly. "Remember Hellscream, without food and supplies our armies will crumble."

"What I do with my time is not your concern; I am answerable to no one!" Garrosh growled, thumping his chest to emphasize his point.

"Have you forgotten what is in a few days' time, of who will be arriving, and why?" Eitrigg retorted. "Or have you laid your foolish schemes to rest?"

"It is you who needs help remembering things these days, not I, old one!" Garrosh countered. "As for my **schemes**, they are ripening and more so than the likes of you would care to believe."

Eitrigg scoffed, baring his fangs. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Shouldn't I?" Garrosh snapped impatiently. "Come spar with me, then on my honor I will go back to my study and work". The way he spat out study made it sound as though the place were a cell, located in the deepest dungeons of hell.

"Is it me you truly wish to spar, or** Goda**? All know the meat roasters have the pitch at this hour".

"Assume nothing!" Garrosh rumbled forcibly.

"Even you cannot deny the desire for a female, Warchief." Said Ettrigg exasperatedly.

"Bah! Desire you say? I desire glory through battle! What use do I have for a female in my life?"

Eitrigg sighed patiently, speaking like one who speaks to a pup. "Well there is the matter of copulation, and siring young."

Garrosh shrugged with a derisive snort, one which made his septum ring quiver. "There is that," he muttered indifferently.

Eitrigg shook his head in disbelief, motioning for Garrosh to lead the way. "You will have to sire young one day soon Garrosh. That is, if you do not want your name and legacy to die out. And with your reckless nature, that could be any day now."

"When you find me one female, on this blasted stone that isn't a crazy bitch, then I will gladly spill my seed inside of her. Until then, I'm a desert". Garrosh finished, kicking a pile of sand into the air.

"I do not know if I could do that". Eitrigg remarked, his amused voice a deep rumble. He smacked Garrosh hard on the back, who in turn grinned back. "But all jests aside, it is something to consider." Eitrigg added seriously.

When they reached the pitch the meat roasters who worked in the kitchens in the keep were there right on schedule, smelling of delicious beast grease and blood; Garrosh felt his mouth water. They were predominately female along with some of the smaller males of the faction. None of them were blood elves, and only a quarter of them were non-Orc.

Garrosh, being Warchief, was allowed the pitch at any time, but instead of barging in and taking advantage of that privilege as he usually did, this time leaned against the archway, to watch.

Goda Elfkiller was magnificent, in all her green glory. Not many females could best her, especially when she had her axe. She was both strong and fierce, fighting her Tauren sparring partner with a vigor that to an abject few (Alliance dogs), would be considered unseemly, but to Garrosh was nothing short of thrilling. He could think of a few uses for her talents. Glorious visions of devastation flashed in his mind's eye. He could picture a pile of human warrior corpses in smouldering wreckage, with Varian Wrynn lying at the very top.

When Goda was done defeating her partner, she did not wipe the sweat that poured down her face and into her eyes and cleavage. Garrosh's male hood pressed uncomfortably against his metal cod piece. He scoffed when he turned and saw Eitrigg was regarding him with a knowing smile. Disconcerted, Garrosh leaned over the fence, away from his Adviser.

The fighting soon tapered off, as the meat roasters became aware of the new comer.

"Warchief!" They saluted him in unison. Some of the females ran over, but the runty males and most of the Tauren and Troll females stayed behind to continue to spar. Garrosh knew that it was his rank that made him so popular with the females, though it was pathetic, he could not deny his pleasure at the attention. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was an undesirable quarantine, sick with red pox in Garadar.

Goda was no different from the females who clamored for his attention but she was better at pretending it was not so. She was aloof and opted to walk toward him slowly keeping herself deliberately behind the herd, yet her eyes were all for him.

"You honor the Horde with your impeccable skill." Garrosh said to them all, except he looked mostly to Goda.

"Warchief, were you entertained?" Goda drawled teasingly.

"Aye" Garrosh nodded, a half-smile on his tusked face.

"Then perhaps we can spar?"

"_Swobu_". Garrosh replied, bowing low.

The fight was over quickly. Being of the "fairer" sex gave no special consideration when in the Horde; in fact a male tended to be overly aggressive when fighting a female who interested him. That way he could prove his potential as a mate. This was especially true concerning Orcs. After several cruel whacks with a wooden Bo to her throat (which left the she-Orc gasping, and Garrosh harder than Granite, Goda was on her back, with Garrosh standing triumphantly over her with his weapon poised threateningly over her pretty bruised green neck.

"Your defeat is sweeter than the blood of a fallen foe, Goda Elf-killer," he purred, lowering his weapon and offering a hand to help her up.

"To have you over me is just as sweet, Warchief," she purred right back, refusing his aid. Garrosh's surprised at her bold words mixed with her knocking his offered hand with a firm smake made him chock on his own saliva.

Eitrigg joined them and gave Garrosh a thumping to the back. "Your beauty has our Warcheif all chocked up.". He laughed heartily, giving Garrrosh one last clout, even though he no longer coughed.

Though Goda's face flushed at the advisor's remark, Garrosh glowered at him fiercely.

"Let us spar now Garrosh, then it is back to the desk, as you promised."

Garrosh did not appreciate being spoken to as if he was a pup. His grip tightened severely around his wooden Bo, a danger sign that Eitrigg missed.

After a fight that drew many spectators and Eitrigg's blood, Garrosh walked back moodily to the hold with his adviser in tow. Garrosh's loincloth was in a figurative twist, he snarled, and cursed under his breath.

"What is it now, Warcheif?" asked Eitrigg .

Garrosh instantly rounded on him; clearly he was waiting for Eitrigg to ask him just that. "Next time you wish to make a fool out of me in front of Goda, warn me so that I may cut out your tongue first!"

"Fool of you? How so? You defeated me, and brutally I might add!" That was a fact; Garrosh forced Eitrigg to surrender.

"Your beauty has the Warchief chocking". Garrosh mimicked, in a high tone that was so unlike Eitrigg's raspy pitch, it was laughable.

Eitrigg pinched the bridge of his nose, "Do not whine like that, it hurts my brain."

"I can say the same about your jokes, old one". Garrosh retorted.

When they reached Garrosh's study, Eitrigg stared aghast at the mess of papers littering the floor. "How-the- fuck- does- this- keep- on - happening?" He demanded to know.

"I have no idea". Garrosh replied tersely, nudging past Eitrigg with an unconvincing look of shock on his face.

"Oh yes you do, Hellscream!" Eitrigg roared. "You did this. Every time you grow frustrated with actually being a leader, you throw parchment around.".

"Tauren shit!" Garrosh said loudly. "Why would I do that? You know how I despise cleaning."

"Because you are worse than a Berserker!" Eitrigg snarled, "Now by the ancestors you clean this up, or I will give you a flogging myself. I will have your meals sent here, and you are not leaving this room until you get your work done!" Eitrigg banged his staff against the ground and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Garrosh swore damnation upon the ancestors. It took him well into the night to finish. Like Eitrigg promised, he had meat brought to the study, and was cruel enough to have it sent by a runty male peon as opposed to a curvy Orcess. Every so often Eitrigg would stick his head through the door and pester Garrosh to work faster. He was careful to be quick about it; incase Garrosh had a mind to use the door as a means to behead him.

"The respect I have for you that stays my hand from breaking your frail, dusty bones is hard to count on when you harass me so, old one". Garrosh growled, dangerously.

Eitrigg entered the room, patting his heart he laughed sardonically. "I am touched, truly."

"This is so boring and beneath me!" Garrosh roared, looking up from his now organized piles of stacked parchments.

"Just what did you assume being Warchief entailed?" Eitrigg inquired with exasperation.

"War!" Garrosh bellowed. "I would have the Lich King stinking up Azeroth again for some fighting to do."

Ettrigg glared sternly at Garrosh. "Do not say such things Warchief. Much was lost because of the Scourge. You dishonor our fallen!"

"Yes, but you can always ask Sylvannas to bring back those we've lost." Garrosh began with disgust. "Count on an undead elf to continue such unnatural activities as bringing back the dead." He added, with a pronounced sneer.

"You are tired, Warchief, I suggest you sleep. We shall tackle these documents tomorrow."

Garrosh nodded, more than grateful to leave the cursed room that he despised so much, and too tired to realize he was being dismissed from his duties, like a pup would from hard chores.

* * *

Sitting on his throne, with his stomach wrapped in absorbent towels, was the most humiliating thing Garrosh had to go through to date. That morning when he woke up, his mattress of furs was soaked. At first he thought he had wet himself, but did not smell the acridness of urine. Instead the scent of something floral assaulted his nostrils. Upon closer inspection, Garrosh discovered that the wetness was slime, and that it was being sweated from his abdomen. The smell of flowers was beginning to make the Warchief want to hurl his liver out on the throne room floor. And to top it off, his lower back began to ache.

"What news Eitrigg?" Garrosh asked when his elderly adviser entered the chamber.

"Some delegations are arriving, Warcheif".

"Who?" Garrosh barked, adjusting himself to find comfort on his throne but failing.

"Jastor Gallywix has arrived from Azshara."

"Already?" replied Garrosh frowning deeply.

"You yourself said that all arrive at their earliest convenience, Warchief".

"That was before I began to feel like shit."

"Your timing is off to get ill." Eitrigg replied matter-of-factly.

"As old as you are, you should know no one with a working mind will choose to be sick. This isn't right. Occupy any arriving delegations and send for a healer to my chambers."

Eitrigg bowed and exited the throne chamber.

"And Eitrigg," Garrosh yelled to his advisor's retreating back, "No females! I don't want my ailment to be the topic of gossip for the next moon cycle."

Eitrigg sighed, "As you wish".

Once in the comfort of his room, Garrosh made way to his bed, even though his chamber lord Gout'cok changed the top layers of fur, the room still smelt of a meadow of flowers. It made him nauseous. In fact his sense of smell was unusually sharp, even for an Orc and it did nothing to help his queasy stomach.

Garrosh removed his belt, peeled the soggy rags off, and inspected his gut. It was bloated up like a corpse in water, soft to the touch, and trickled steady rivulets of grey slime from his pores. His lower back felt as though it belonged to a seventy year old arthritic human farmer. "The FUCK?" He bellowed, struggling into bed.

A knock on the door signalled Eitrigg's arrival, Garrosh grunted for him to come in. Eitrigg entered the room with three others; another Orc, a Troll, and a Tauren. Garrosh growled,

"I said bring one healer, not several, Eitrigg."

"Nonsense!" Eitrigg declared. "Here, I brought a shaman," he said, motioning to the brown robed Orc with a grizzly patched beard.

"Warchief, I am Naz'gron Galrot," the Orc shaman said bowing.

Next Eitrigg pointed at the Troll. "Ja'mal is the very best potion doctor in the valley, despite his young age."

The pale blue troll with dark blue hair bowed stiffly "Warchief," he murmured.

"And this is-

"Blaith Poundhoof. I know!" Garrosh snapped, he was familiar with the dark brown Tauren priest. "You can leave now. Care for the arrivals."

"What troubles you, Warchief?" Blaith asked once Eitrigg disappeared.

"When I awoke this morning, I was secreting a slime that smells of shit from my stomach". Garrosh rubbed his belly with the pads of his fingers and held them up. The three medical professionals surrounded the bed sniffing.

"Smell quite nice, like flowers our sumden". Ja'mal remarked, scratching his jaw with a tight smile.

Garrosh sneered at him. "The smell makes me want to vomit my guts out! In fact I can smell every- little- thing around me, and it all makes me sick!"

The Orc shaman, the Tauren priest, and the Troll potion doctor all looked at each other simultaneously with raised eyebrows.

"See how his stomach is swollen?" Blaith said, rubbing his horns in thought.

Naz'gron gently prodded it, rubbing in slow semi circles. "This is queer, mark that." he growled.

Ja'mal rubbed some of the slime from Garrosh's abdomen between his fingers. "Have ya ingested ena ting unusual lately, Warchief? Per'aps a potion, dat ya nah try before?"

"No," Garrosh said after some thought, "I have been eating beast and drinking naught but water and ale. The same shit as usual". Garrosh finished gruffly.

Ja'mal frowned, "It could be poison."

"No, I think not. Blaith feel this," Naz'gron stopped rubbing Garrosh's abdomen and made room for the Tauren.

Blaith prodded in a similar fashion that Naz'gron did, chanting under his breath with his eyes closed. Suddenly he stopped and held his hands flat against Garrosh's stomach, before looking up at Naz'gron in awe.

"You feel it too, then?" Naz'gron asked.

"Feel what?" Garrosh urged them, sitting up with a wince. "Feel what?" He repeated.

Blaith suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if weighing his answer carefully in his mind.

"Warchief, take no offence to this, but you aren't two of the kind are you?"

"What's that?" Garrosh asked with a frown.

The priest cleared his throat before replying. "Were you born both male and female?"

Garrosh and Ja'mal both spluttered. "What are you getting at mon?" The Troll asked.

"Of course I wasn't!" Garrosh replied with furious indignation.

Both Blaith and Naz'gron said nothing as they were deep in thought.

"Why are you asking me that?" Garrosh went on angrily.

"I'm just ruling everything out, Warchief". Blaith replied. "There is a witchdoctor who

goes by Zarg; we might require his expertise, this is no normal ailment".

"Find him and bring him here!" Garrosh demanded.

Blaith nodded, and his hoofs clomped against the floor as he crossed the room, and out the door.

It was sometime before Blaith Poundhoof returned with a spotted blueberry coloured troll.

Zarg was so stooped with age that he was bent nearly double. Ja'mal, who was kneeling beside the bed rose and greeted the Troll with relish. "A wahdy witchdoctah dis. He can fix ya ailment Warchief". He said confidently.

Zarg long white hair was decorated with bone beads, the dreaded tresses had a faint red tint, making it look like rusted cotton. Around his waist, he wore a belt of shrunken human heads.

"At ease pickny". Zarg said hoarsely, before turning to Garrosh. "Wha be dat stink?" Zarg hobbled across the room rattling his staff; the chicken bones and feathers adorning the wood clanked as he did so.

"It's the slime from my-"

"'Ush!" Zarg shouted, holding up his staff. "Me feel sumden" He stooped over Garrosh, holding his staff over the Warchief's abdomen. To everyone's astonishment, he began to

whack Garrosh's gut with astonishing strength. The bones and feathers on the staff were soon coated in slime.

"Oy you old fucker, halt!" Garrosh howled.

Naz'gron went to the Warchief's aide, thinking that the ancient Troll had lost his mind, but both Blaith and Ja'mal held him back, demanding the Orc allow the witch doctor to finish.

Over, and over again, Zarg pummelled Garrosh with his staff, sometimes striking the Warchief's hands, as he tried to deflect the Troll's blows. Zarg shouted a litany of unintelligible Zandali, his eyes rolled back to show only the yellowing whites. He danced around and sang, occasionally circling around to deliver a whack to Garrosh's midsection. Suddenly he stopped, and closed his eyes, muttering now in Orcish. Nothing he said made sense and when his eyes finally opened, the once red irises were completely black.

"Me nah know wha it is, but me feel like da Warchief is channelling someting true ehm.".\ said Zarg dropping to his knees, with a wicked smile.


	2. T I T

**Chapter Two**

**The Intangible Tether**

The scent of the desert burnt Malkorok's nose hairs and left his ash coloured skin parched. Droplets of dusty sweat gathered in the curve of his neck like rain in the crevices of slate, the blood on his gauntlets was proof that Malkorok had followed the Warchief's orders, which was to provide for him unquestionable loyalty by any means necessary.

The once Blackrock clan members' iron shod boots sunk deep into the sand, as he neared to the looming gates of Grommash hold. Malkorok decided he would risk dehydration and celebrate his morning's brutality with the deepest jug of bourbon he could lay his hands on. With only that in mind, he made way to the board; a nice joint of mutton would go well with his drink. Unfortunately for Malkorok, Eitrigg hobbled towards him in haste which meant there was a task at hand, and rarely one that could be accomplished while drunk.

"Where are you coming from looking all smug?" Eitrigg asked upon reaching the swaggering brute.

"I do not have to divulge any of my whereabouts to you, _**green skin**_." Malkorok sneered, walking around Eitrigg.

"There is a problem." Eitrigg declared, following him.

"Not anymore there isn't, I have taken care of the Warchief's problem." Malkorok splayed his fingers suggestively, and examined the back of a gloved hand lazily.

Eitrigg exulted sardonically, "I do not speak of your tormenting our denizens. The Warchief is ill, and has requested for your presence."

Malkorok stopped mid stride, turning sharply to peer at Eitrigg in disbelief. "The Warchief's…Ill?"

"Yes, and I should warn you Malkorok, Garrosh is a bit out of sorts."

"What do you mean Eitrigg?" Malkorok growled.

Eitrigg choose his next words carefully, it wasn't wise even for him to insult Garrosh in the presence of his precious lap dog. "He is rather quaint right now."

"What exactly do you mean by quaint?" Malkorok was not sure of the meaning of the word, but he did not wish to appear as thick headed as Eitrigg constantly accused him of being.

"I mean to say that the Warchief is more emotional lately, due to his ailment." Ettrigg explained tightly.

Malkorok's bottom lip trembled, despite his attempt to appear neutral. "What is wrong with him then?" He managed to keep his voice level and unconcerned.

"He is unable to remove himself from bed, it's his gut. His gut… It's-," Eitrigg paused, unable to go further for the haunting visage the Warchief's stomach brought to mind.

Malkorok intervened; Eitrigg's queerness was becoming intolerable. The elderly could never be trusted for straight answers.

"What of his gut then?" Malkorok growled impatiently.

"I had a mate and two sons once, I know of the things that come with the bringing of life." Said Eitrigg vaguely.

Malkorok looked nothing short of confounded. He said nothing; and waited to see where Eitrigg was taking him with his strange riddles.

"But never with a lad, never with slime". Eitrigg went on cryptically, as he began to pick at his grey stubble in thought.

"Are you saying that Garrosh has gotten a female pregnant?" Hot blood became icy slush in Malkorok's veins.

Eitrigg did not answer him at once. He began to walk, leading Malkorok to where

Garrosh's chamber was located. "No."

Malkorok let out the breath he was holding. "Then what is it?" He snapped. They had reached the doors that led to the hall before the Warchief''s room.

"Perhaps this is something that you should see." Eitrigg remarked, as he hesitantly opened the double doors and crossed the threshold. Malkorok followed closely behind; his interest was piqued to the point of restlessness.

Once they reached the doors to the Warchief's set of rooms, Gout'cok the war chief's _ saluted before opening a door for them. Eitrigg made way for Malkorok, as if he was reluctant to enter the floral scented chamber again. The room was dim and alive with the sounds of hushed growls, and a chorus of low pitiful moans. Malkorok's eyes' adjusted to the dark easily. He took in the large form of Garrosh on his bed, propped up on a heap of pillows, with a hazy light bathing him from head to toe.

"Declare yourself." Garrosh demanded, he groaned from the sound of the door slamming shut behind the two new comers, and attempted in vain to lean forward for a better view of them.

"I have returned with Malkorok." Eitrigg replied.

"Five of our most renowned healers stand before you Malkorok," Garrosh began weakly, as though every word weighed the world. "They have yet to tell me why I can't move."

Malkorok looked around slowly, at each different healer, from three different races. "And you think that I can?" He asked incredulously. "Warchief, I am no healer." Malkorok finished, with a slight frown.

Garrosh jerked his head and scoffed loudly. "Of course you fucking aren't!" He snarled, but then trembled because the exertion caused him great nausea. "I beckoned you here because I am on my death bed, and there are rights that must be dealt with."

Malkorok did not need to see Garrosh's face clearly to know that his eyes shone with unshod tears not when his voice broke with melancholy. He shifted his weight from one foot, to the next, and one of his eyebrows threatened to become lost among his scalp. _'Emotional indeed'_ He mused.

"Warchief, we do not yet know if this illness is fatal; there is no need to jump to such a conclusion!" Blaith argued reasonably.

"Dere be a chance da Warchief is right Tauren," Jamal said grimly, "dis be serious mon."

"You think?" Garrosh snarled sarcastically. He sat up now with a terrible effort, and regarded them all. "Can one of you fools fix this? Or will you have your Warchief crawl to Alliance filth for competent healing?" No one in the room pointed out how hard pressed it would be to find anyone in the Alliance who would consider healing the son of Grom.

"Warchief, this is not something any of us has ever seen." Explained a female Tauren named Rokxanna; her presence was granted in the room despite her gender because Garrosh had no choice in the matter since no male could heal him of his current ailment.

"Look!" Blaith exclaimed." Something is coming out of the Warchief's belly! By the powers, it's a hand, a tiny hand!" Everyone turned their attention back to the Warchief's swollen stomach. Suddenly Garrosh fell back into his pillows, panting as though he ran a great distance, the light that bathed him thickened to a fog.

The small crowd surrounded his bed at once, all staring wide eyed at the phenomenon. The priest was right of course, slowly but surely a slime covered hand emerged from a fog so dense around Garrosh's midsection, that none could see whether or not the Warchief's skin was being torn open to allow the entity to pass through.

"Do you feel pain Warchief?" Naz'gron inquired, from a respectable distance of the swirling substance now filling the room. However, Garrosh could not answer; the might of the fog that now bathed his entire body paralyzed him. He felt suspended in time, as if in another dimension; where nothing he said or did could reach Azeroth.

"Another arm!" Blaith shouted hoarsely.

Eventually two whole slimy white arms both twiggy, and corded with muscle were on each of the Warchief's' heavy thighs. The entity grasped them with long and callused fingers, and began to pull itself from his abdomen, and the weight of the light. Next there came a head, with its long dark hair slick with the flowery scented slime, followed by its narrow shoulders, and torso.

The entity panted from the effort it took to extract itself from the Warchief and the fog, but soon was out. Naked, and wrinkly like a newborn baby, it passed out with a final sigh between Garroshs' legs. The light slowly but surely died, and the fog came no more.

All eight witnesses stood thunderstruck at what had just transpired, but none in as much horror as Garrosh himself, he took in the form of the slimy woman, sprawled buttocks up between his legs.

"Get it off me!" Garrosh growled, recuperating at once. He sat up now with no trouble at all, and then looked at the slimy thing with an abundance of disgust.

Ja'mal was the first who came to his senses, not minding the slime or her nakedness; he pulled the girl off of his Warchief, and held her at arm's length towards the others, clearly at a loss of any idea of what to do.

"It's Human." Rokxanna said squinting at it.

"She's an Elf." Naz'gron corrected her shortly.

"How can you be sure?" The Tauren huffed at the Orc shaman.

"Her ears are pointed," Naz'gron replied with gruff impatience. "Though…they are smaller than any Elf ears I have ever seen before." He added with a frown.

"But look at the hair above her eyes; they do not look elfish to me." Rokxanna reasoned.

"I don't care what it is! It is unwanted, Alliance scum! How it got here is the question!" Garrosh hollered, spitting with rage and repugnance. "Have it cleaned and brought to the dungeons for interrogation." Garrosh sat on the edge of his bed, and rubbed his stomach with a visible shudder. He was satisfied to find that himself still intact.

Ja'mal wrapped the elfish-like girl in a blanket and cradled her like an infant. He wore the expression of one who held something quite remarkable their hands. Everyone watched as the Troll walked to the door, with Rokxanna following him. However, once they neared the threshold, Garrosh was thrust onto his feet and went skidding towards them.

Ja'mal howled as the unconscious entity in his arms was thrown towards Garrosh, her arms flaying uselessly behind her as would a banner in the wind. She landed on Garrosh's chest and bounced off, landing curled up in a heap around his feet.

If Garrosh was disturbed by what had just occurred he did not show it, "What was that?" He demanded with a scowl twisting his plump bottom lip.

"Dat be a tettah trick." Zarg explained.

"Speak plain Monk." Garrosh replied coldly, to the ancient Witch Doctor.

"She and you are tethered together with magic." Naz'gron clarified.

Ja'mal's laughter became a gruff cough, when Garroshs' eyes bore into his own.

"Impossible! How can this be?" Garrosh snarled, he crossed the room and was barely five yards from the unconscious Half-elf, when yet again they were magnetically flung together. Garrosh threw his head back with a bellow that cut through the silence of the room, like a tree exploding in the dead of a frigid night. "How can I fix this? I can't be...I can't be…" Suddenly Garrosh remembered the letter.

"I received a letter," Garrosh began, throwing the slimy wench a withering glare before continuing. "I do not know who sent it, it wasn't signed. Fuck if I remember what it said. It's in my study somewhere… maybe on the floor. It said something about a woman in red... and a curse." It was not until that moment, that Garrosh partially realized the ridiculous letter, which he threw so precariously over his shoulder was a spell that would change the fate of his ambitions, and the measure of his downfall.

* * *

Finnall Goldensword woke in a daze with all of her senses lost to her. Seconds later when the numbness of shock faded into oblivion, she became aware once more. First she smelled the foul stenches of urine, feces and death making it apparent that her face was covered with some sort of filth ridden sac; it was the same itchy material covering her body. Her hands were bound in front of her with iron, and she sat on a spindly stool that threatened to break beneath her struggles.

Finnall erected her back, and sat very still when she heard movements before her; heavy thuds, and clumsy growling words that she assumed was Orcish. "Show yourselves!" She demanded.

Laughter met her. Hideous, mocking laughter, and then the sac were lifted from her face. Finnall raised her cuffed hands before her eyes to blot out the fire light. "And just who are you to give orders in Origammar, _**mutt**_?"

Finnall looked up into a tattooed brown face that was contorted into a savage grimace. If she was not made up of the strong stuff that she was, the way the fire light played off of the Orc's ivory tusks would have been cause to empty her bowls. She took in their number at once: three armed Orcs. She did not stand a chance, not bound as she was, and without her weapons.

"My _**name,**_ is Finnak Bywater." Finnall lied easily, it was Horde territory after all, and she would not be called a mutt.

"Finnak Bywater?" The one who questioned her repeated.

"Yes." She nodded once.

"And how did you come to be in my land, _**Finnak Bywater**_?"

Finnall shook her head. "You know, I'm not sure."

"Position her." The interrogator barked.

A grey skinned Orc rushed forward, hauling Finnall to her feet by the cuffs around her wrists. Finnall knew she would be tortured so worked out at once what her situation was.

The letter she had read some nights before was a spell that had somehow bonded her with The tyrant Garrosh Hellscream,. She had never actually seen Garrosh before, but knew he was one of the Mag'har who wore the rare brown skin that his people lost due to their tainting, yet even if she hadn't seen his skin the fact that he had called Origammar his land gave him away. Finnall concluded that she was dealing with a dilettante of an interrogator.

When Finnall's hands were bound above her onto a strange black metal contraption, meant to hold her captive while she was to be given a Horde's lesson in pain, she shuddered in an attempt to detach herself from her body. She could sense the anticipation in the Warchief, as he massaged his wrists, and stared unblinkingly at her; it was both unnerving and exciting.

Once the famed brute found out whom she truly was, and that some unknown force sent her of all people to soften him, she would be killed on the spot. '_But death will equal two if it should come to one._' Finnall thought of the contents of her letter with some comfort. _'It is never a tragedy to die to bring down a tyrant'_ Finnall decided, feeling her will harden. She was ready for her lesson in pain.

"It is in your best interest to let me down at once." Finnall said calmly, and with the authority she held from her rank. This was all to Garrosh's amusement of course; How the girl thought she held some sort of power, and assumed she would not break. How she was demanding things of him in the guise of a friendly suggestion, though she was tied up and very far from help or compassion.

"It is in your best interest to tell me all that you know, wench." Garrosh retorted, in a low voice, with menace licking every syllable.

"I know nothing." Finnall replied, with an amused smirk.

'_The little bitch has the nerve to smile at me?'_ Garrosh scrutinized her fiercely. "Think you can come gallivanting this far into Horde territory, with no prior knowledge as to how and that I would believe you, do you think me a fool?"

"That would depend on your next few actions." Finnall returned calmly.

Garrosh let up on massaging his wrists and cocked his head to regard the puny rat before him. "You wished harm upon me, little maggot, and now you are caught like a tick in a web; how dim are you to insult me?"

"I mean you no disrespect or harm." Finnall knew her words would not sooth him; it was clear by his demeanor that it would cause him great pleasure to abuse her.

"Little girl, Alliance scum, I think you do." Garrosh replied, with depraved anticipation. He stepped forward, looming more than two feet over her frame. He held the chain link that attached her cuffs to the metal bar, and stroked it with a menacing smile. "Now tell me Finak Bywater, how did you come to be in my land?"

"I- know - nothing" Finnall responded, and it was not a complete lie, so she was able to make it somewhat convincing.

Garrosh would not be fooled. He back handed her smartly with an impatient huff, turning to snarl when one of the Orcs behind him made a noise of objection.

Finnall looked up to see that it was an old green skinned Orc who protested on her behalf. He held the hilt of his axe, and growled sternly in his mysterious tongue.

Garrosh turned back to Finnall looking thunderous. "What have you done to me?" He hissed.

"I have done nothing!"

"Two days ago I began to secrete slime, and then you crawl through my stomach like demon spawn. Explain this witch, it is something!" Garrosh turned and spat.

Finnall gapped up at him like a fish out of water, she was so alarmed at the prospect of crawling through some ones gastric region that she could not speak.

"Answer me you half-breed abomination," Garrosh removed his hands from the cuff and encircled her throat twice over, giving a healthy squeeze. "Or die." He hissed in her face.

"Answer you?" Finnall gasped dumbly from the lack of oxygen. With a roar Garrosh fisted her hair with his free hand, his patience was wearing thin, and a surging urge to make red lines all over her pretty white flesh was overtaking him.

"Urgh... Okay, please, you'll rip my head off Orc! How can I speak when you're strangling me?" Finnall managed to wheeze, as she turned purple in the face.

"Rip your head off? I'll do more than rip your head off!" Garrosh roared, and threw her from him. She swung around uselessly from the wrists, until her feet were able to purchase the floor again. "Malkorok!" He bellowed making his body guard disappear into the darkness of the room.

The old Orc protested again, but Garrosh ignored him; instead he kept his eyes on his prey.

Finnall craned her head around when she heard the sound of a crank being turned. She was slowly raised from the ground, until her toes barely skimmed the floor.

"Now you will tell me who you are and where you are from."

"I told you my name is Finak Bywater, I am from the Elwyn forest, I am but a seamstress and a farmer."

"Lies!" Garrosh roared, slamming a fist into her stomach. "You are nothing but a spy of Wrynn's!"

"I do not work for the King I am not even Alliance I am Neutral!"

" How convenient." Malkorok snorted.

Garrosh agreed, he picked up a torch and held it close to Finnall's knees. " Now is your only chance to tell me the truth."

Finnall bit her lips against the pain trying to move away from the flame but with her toes barely touching the ground it proved fruitless.

"Tell us about the letter". The old Orc said suddenly.

Finnall looked over to him in surprise.

"Eitrigg, hold your tongue!" Garrosh growled menacingly.

Finnall eyed Eitrigg imploringly. "It was you, who sent it?"

"Are you confirming you received a letter?" Eitrigg urged her nodding.

"Yes… It was left on my pillow. It came in a small black envelope, unsigned and absurd."

"What did it say?" Growled Eitrigg gently.

Finnall pursed her lips and looked away.

"Blatant Alliance treachery!" Malkorok hollered at the top of his voice. "Warchief, allow me to get the truth from her!"

"In time Malkorok, these things cannot be rushed". Garrosh said removing a dagger from his hip. "There is a certain ceremony for handling treacherous little spies".

"I am no spy!" Finnall retorted, eyeing the blade warily.

"Liar!" Malkorok snarled. He abandoned the crank and stalked up to her with alarming speed, and backhanded her so hard that her top and bottom lip split open to reveal red juice.

Finnall swung around by her wrists, unable to stop herself with her feet not touching the ground. She spat out a mouthful of blood from her mouth , "I speak the truth!" she cried, swallowing the blood that now pooled into her mouth, and continued bravely; "my letter said that if one of us should die so too will the other!"

Malkorok made to attack her again, when Garrosh placed the torch in his hands and

threw him towards the door, "Malkorok, leave us!"

"Warchief I-

"Obey." Garrosh grumbled warningly. Malkorok gave Finnall a final look of contempt, before he stormed noisily from the room.

"There must be a way I can stop this unnatural connection." Garrosh muttered to himself, once his body guard was gone. "Perhaps this can be undone, and then I can slay the little wench". He mimed strangling her with his hands.

"You can always try following the instructions of the letter Warchief.".Eitrigg said seriously, his hand tightened on his staff as he awaited Garrosh's wrath.

"And just what do you mean by that, old one?" Garrosh snarled, turning on Eitrigg. "Shut the fuck up!" He yelled pointing at Finnall without looking at her. (She was noisily spitting out blood.)

"Allow her the chance to quench your war thirst". Eitrigg said, with a patient sigh.

In response Garrosh snorted and spat by Finnalls' feet. "For now the mongrel will be given accommodation". He turned his red eyes to hers. "Do not think that I cannot punish you, I may not be able to kill you, _**for now**__,_ but rest assured that I will put you back in line, if you put a hair out of it".

"I do not doubt that for a second". Finnall muttered, wiping saliva and blood from her mouth and onto her shoulder.

"And do not think you will not be working. Every morsel of food you eat is at the cost of my people, not even a drop of water that you drink will go unpaid"

"Then I will have to thank you for your hospitality when this is through, Hellscream." Finnall murmured with a tilt of her head. Luckily her hair was loose and dry of slim so it covered the look of rage that passed over her beautiful features. She was a warrior, and though deep in enemy territory, she would not become a victim of horrific circumstances, she would defend herself, until the end. Finnall gulped another mouthful of blood bitterly.

"Bah!" Garrosh spat going for the door, only to be tugged when he was about to breech the limit of the invisible tether. He growled his frustration. "How am I to walk around Origammar now, with this ten pound boil on my ass?"

"She will have to wear red, maybe we can pass her off as a Blood Elf". Eitrigg suggested, though he considered the girl with doubt. "Finnak Bywater" though very fair to look upon, did not have that ethereal radiance to her that elfish folk were surrounded by. Her eyes did not glow, yet their coloring was intense and unusual; one eye was the sky and the other a field of clovers beneath it. Another flaw that would give her away as not being a true Blood Elf was her eyebrows, they did not fan out in an arch, and her pointed ears were small, not much longer than a human's, only large enough to poke out of her hair.

"I will not pass myself as a blood elf!" Finnal said passionately.

"If you are neutral like you say you are why would that bother you?" Eitrigg wondered suspiciously.

"Anyone who identifies as a High-Elf would be offended, it doesn't make me a liar!" Finnall reasoned, but it was clear that Eitrigg did not believe her.

"How will I explain her sharing my quarters?" Garrosh went on, as if she did not speak. "I won't have my people think I am consorting with a Blood Elf."

Finnall considered this; she'd have to live with Garrosh for as long as it took for her to have him like her. She shuddered and looked up when she felt his gaze on her. The predatory smile that his carnivorous mouth split into instantly troubled her.

"She will be a trophy." He said, and though he spoke to Eitrigg he kept his eyes trained on her, challenging her to disagree with him. "Clearly she is of warrior quality; that much is clear." He examined her roughened hands and noted that she did not flinch at his proximity, but bore her eyes into him with suppressed fury. He chuckled without humor

" We'll call it a failed assassination plot by the Alliance, and I spared her life. So now, she must pay for it, by serving me… as a slave." He grinned triumphantly at her look of disbelief. He noticed then that her nose was slightly squashed and crooked from an untreated break. He wondered what other scars he would have the opportunity of marring her with; he knew her kinds did not esteem them.

"That might work."Eitrigg nodded.

"And it will explain the soft leather of my new armour, once this curse is broken". Garrosh added coldly.


	3. O M A S

Chapter Three

**Of Musters and Stowaways**

The next morning Finnall awoke with her heart beating rapidly from an unknown dread, the red curtains cast an eerie light around the room; as if Photons could bleed.. Having the view of her surroundings partially obstructed by rusted iron bars made her nightmare a reality. Waking in a cage did not only cause mental anguish but it also left the body in a world of pain. Finnall's head ached where Garrosh struck her before she was manhandled into the confine that was to serve as her bed.

Finnall scanned the area critically until finally resting on the Warchief himself. He was sprawled obnoxiously on his back diagonally across the bed of furs; he snored like a bull with a cold, and was pitching a tent fit for a party of gnomes;

The cage offered very little room to properly straighten her back from a crouching position, so she sat crossed legged on top of her thin pallet, with the crown of her head jammed up against the top bars. Finnall could only imagine how painful the device was for a full grown Orc, like it was intended to hold.

A twinge in her bladder begged relief, Finnall knew the only way out was by the key in Garrosh's keeping. Finnall Grinned mischievously, there was no stopping her with adrenaline fueling her, "FIRE!" She shrieked and was satisfied when the Warchief shot up.

Garrosh searched around wildly for the huge squeaking rat that was caught but not yet killed in one of the traps in his room. His flame coloured eyes found that it was only the girl, she was peering up at him through the bars of her cage, looking every bit as frightening as an owl behind bars, he snorted and made to lie back down again for rest.

'_Do not try!_' Finnall thought fiercely. "I will not sleep another moment in this cage, my body aches!" She yelled angrily. Garrosh ignored her, snuggling like a Behemoth's baby into his pillow he fell right back to sleep.

"Orc!" Finnall bellowed, "let –me- out!"

An abhorrent yawn was her only prize for doing so. "You lazy lump of flesh, get up! Can't you see the sun has risen?"

A sinister rumble that came from somewhere deep in Garrosh's diaphragm and steadily grew louder, until becoming a harsh snarl. Upon standing the Warcheif stretched with a shudder running down the length of his body.

"I was having a good dream, you louse!" He roared stomping towards his prisoner still fully erected. He brandished his weapon in her face, before ripping the key which was around his neck off of its chain.

_'Clearly_' Finnall understood warily, with a seconds glance at his loincloth.

"Since you have an unquenchable appetite for pain, I will find it in my heart to _**treat **_you." Garrosh unlocked the door, and dragged Finnall out by the hair.

Finnall's legs were asleep, so when the Orc hauled her to her feet, they tingled unpleasantly. "For light's sake take it easy, remember that if I die, you fall with me!" That vile truth served only to set him off, Garrosh threw Finnall down to the ground, as if she was a bag of rocks he wished to make gravel out of.

"YOU FOOLISH WENCH!" He bellowed, "Did I not warn you that if you put a hair out of line you will be punished?" He kicked her from her stomach, and onto her back, so that his eyes could pierce her own. "Did your puny brain forget that I have means of making you suffer that will not end your pitiful life?"

It took more than a few moments for Finnall to catch her breath; winded as she was.

"What have I done but ask you to release me from an unnecessary prison?" She whimpered.

"Are you pleased now with where your grievances have gotten you, now that you're groveling on the ground like a drying worm?"

"Let no one say the Warchief of the Horde lacks refinement, and patience. Your words are poison."

Garrosh gave her a once over, as though she were a chipped piece of pottery, being sold on the roadside by some shifty heckler.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Finnall said turning red in the face.

Arching an eyebrow coolly, Garrosh showed her his back. "Because I wish to kill you" He replied simply.

Finnall jutted her chin, and tossed her mane of sleek dark hair over her shoulder. "Do it then" she jeered.

Garrosh spun around with a growl, and pointed a finger close to her face. "You would be wise to shut that hole in your face, slave." He warned her venomously, jutting his chin in turn. "I am your master now, and I will not tolerate your cheek, the day will come when I will put you out of your miser that day is not this one"

"Do not fool yourself, Hellscream, perhaps out there I will pretend to serve you," She retorte, pointing at the door, "but we both know the truth, I am not your slave, in fact, my life ties yours to this world; imagine your dilemma if I choose not to live in your hell anymore."

Garrosh grabbed her by the front of her dress, and raised her from the ground, so they were face to face. "How would you like for me to drape you over my knee, and teach you your due respect, girl?"

Finnall adjusted the ruined neckline of her garment so it covered her petite breasts and considered the face that was so close that its features were blurred, there was no hint of an empty threat written in the cresses of his livid face. His words stirred the most peculiar feelings, in the depths of her stomach.

"I did not mean to upset you _**master,**_ it is only the cage is very painful".

Garrosh laughed coldly. "Then perhaps you require a true lesson in pain, so from now on your bed will seem like a haven." With that being said he strode across the room tugging Finnall along with him, and when she attempted to pull back it was fruitless; the chain that linked them gave control to the stronger entity when both tested it.

The halls were deserted, except for the guards who were stationed every thirty yards from each other. From the shadows there came a chilling laugh, both gravely and deep. Finnall looked around with suspicion for the source, but Garrosh merely stiffened, with his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"Awake with the coming of the sun." Eitrigg announced, materializing from the dark.

"What a pleasant surprise, and very wise too, Warchief. Today is an important one, after all." The elder turned his red eyes over to Finnall, taking in her disheveled appearance with curiosity. "Just where are you two heading this morning, and Warchief why are you dressed in only your loincloth?"

"I am taking the mutt to the dungeons, so that I can flog it within an inch of its miserable life!" Garrosh spat, "and as for your other question, Eitrigg, I am in a hurry."

"Oh-ho, is that so?" Eitrigg sang with glee. "Lover's spat, I see, I see!" He gave Finnall a look of pity. "It would not be wise to hand her a beating, right before she is to take the particular potion she is to take."

"I don't care! Garrosh retorted passionately. "The bitch needs to learn her place, her dealings with me are like we are of equal status!" He fumed, grabbing her by the throat for what Finnall felt was the hundredth time. "She must learn somehow that her presumption is not the case."

Only when Finnall's eyes seemed ready to pop from her skull did he release her, accompanied by a disgusted grunt.

Finnall coughed and weezed, wanting badly to ask Eitrigg what he meant by her having to take a drought, but it took all of her effort to painfully draw air again.

"Even so," Eitrigg began, planting both hands on Garrosh's shoulders turning him back to the direction of his quarters, "it would be a terrible waste of time, on a day so important."

"Get out of it, old one!" Gaarrosh barked, he peeled Eitriggs' hands off his body, and pushed him to the side before continuing down to the corridor, to the dungeons.

"Alright, if you want the girl to die on this day, by all means punish her!" Eitrigg called, to their retreating backs.

Garrosh stopped short, his expression said of just how difficult the choice to not lash her was. He threw Finnall a look of unfiltered hatred, before turning on his heel with an angry gargle in his throat; heading this time to his chamber.

Eitrigg chuckled, he watched Finnall dig her heels in the ground when Garrosh dragged her back to his room by the invisible tether. '_They will be dead within a fortnight'. _He mused gravely.

* * *

"You just wait until this curse is lifted!" Garrosh began nastily, upon arrival to his chamber. "I will have you thrown to the Kor'kron guard, to enjoy at their leisure. You will be torn apart and then eaten". He added with a nasty leer.

Finnall cared not what threats he bestowed on her, so long as she did not have to go back in the cage. She kept her head down in a bid to look submissive, and said nothing of the acid coursing through her flesh; burning tunnels for veins.

Garrosh grunted, satisfied that he found a threat at last to make her bow to his will, though that particular threat was an empty one. He would never dream of wasting good food on the corruption of his brother's appetites.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Three knocks rippled, through the wood door.

"Enter!" Garrosh hollered, walking to the other side of the room where he stored his clothing. Gout'cok opened the double doors, and chained them to stay open. He then rolled in a massive pewter tub, stopping short of passing the archway of the door because he saw Finnall standing in the middle of the room with her head down, outwardly demure except for the secret glowers she kept throwing the Warcheif under her long dark lashes.

"Should I bring another tub of water in then?" Gout'cok said, with his gaze lingering on the slight figure, with an essence that emitted flames.

"No, but you can bring it food, of slave quality and…" Garrosh caught a whiff of an unwelcome scent; his nostril flared, and his bottom lip drooped to show his teeth. "Gout'cok!" Garrosh rumbled warningly.

The young Orc snapped back to reality, and tore his eyes from his Warchief's pet, looking mortified. "Yes Warchief, I will bring her slave food." Gout'cok bowed and backed out of the room, throwing Finnall one last look of what he thought was masked curiosity, before closing the doors.

Garrosh watched him go through narrowed eyes and the muscles in his jaw in a knot. He stripped out of his loincloth, and then considered the water before him; turning his head this way, and that, before stepping into the waist high tub.

Finnall wanted very much to bathe, the heat of the dessert returned in full force, with the coming of the sun. She could feel her sweat leaving stains on her only piece of clothing, soon it would stink, hopefully then the Orc would spare her some water.

"You can use the tub when I am through." Garrosh said, as he began soaping his bald head, and dunking it under the water. "That is, if it meets your elfish standards."

"I've bathed in swamps before now; it won't be much different I fear." Finnall remarked blandly. Whether or not the insult was apparent to him, Garrosh made no sign of it. He sighed with the contentment one got from being submerged in cool water on a hot day.

Finnall figured now was the best time she had to find out about the drought she was to take. "What is that block of soap made from?"

Garrosh opened a single eye to consider her with lazy abandonment "Castor, beast fat, peppermint, and other things needed to make soap; I DON'T KNOW I AM NO PEON!"

Finnall marveled at his quick and intense change of mood.

"How should I know?" He grumbled now, calmly, but with a bite of impatience.

"I only ask because it smells good." Finnall went on carefully, "I noticed you smell quite nice as well." She suppressed her grin perfectly behind a mask of one who said a passing statement, with no real significance. At once Garrosh began searching her face for any trace of trickery; finding none he grunted and settled back, resting his head on the rim of the tub. Finnall noticed a slight smile twisting the corner of his thick bottom lip.

"A compliment on my hygiene, and from a human and elf wench too… How unusual."

Finnall privately agreed. A majority of her kinds complained to no end of the Horde's stench.

"You have a lot of tattoos; did the ones on your face hurt very much?"

A rumble that was a cross between a purr and a growl met her words. "We Orcs do not have the weak skin that both of your races wear.''

"Oh but of course, and what a blessing that must be. You would not believe how often I pray to the light for thicker skin. You see, as only a half an Elf, I am prone to scarring."

Garrosh regarded her, with suspicion written all over his face. It was not often her kinds would exchange magic for brute strength. "Do you truly?"

"Of course I do! Wouldn't you in my place?" Finnall asked, in an exasperated voice.

"I would, but I am neither Elf, nor Human; I have no limitless addiction for magic."

Finnall pursed her lips, and tossed her shinny but tangled hair from agitation. "Not all of us have an insatiable appetite for magic, Hellscream!" She said angrily.

Garrosh refrained himself uncharacteristically, from his hurling insults on the expense of the lesser beings; instead his laugh was like the bark of a rabid dog, he stood with no shame towards his nakedness, Finnall's scandalized wail of terror at the action made him smile widely, though her reaction was no surprise.

"You might as well get used to seeing it, **Finnak Bywater**," Garrosh leered. Finnall opened her mouth to retort, but only an "Eep!" came out.

Finnall was not equipped with the imagination it took to dream of the nightmarish position she was in at that moment; averting her eyes from the privates of the Warchief of the Horde, whilst he chuckled from wicked amusement.

"Eitrigg said something about a potion I am to take today." Finnall stated weakly, with her back to her so called master.

"That's right". Garrosh replied, his skin was already dry from his bath, because of the heat of the air around him, and his own Orcish fire.

"Why am I to take a potion, and just what is it going to do?" A stronger tone now, laced with something akin to anger.

"I am under no onus, to tell you why you will do the things you will do in Origammar, girl, but you will do as you are told, and with no questions asked, or you will suffer!"

"Like damnation I will!" Finnall snarled, rounding on him, only to have to spin right back around again; Garrosh was still naked, and he was caressing Gorehowl as though it was a woman. Finnall scoffed, and then went to peer in the tub. "You didn't piss in this did you?"

"No, you see I am not fond of bathing in my own body fluids." Garrosh replied, in a tone that sang his impatience.

Finnall ran her hand through the water, to test its temperature; it was a bit cooler than lukewarm. "Please do not look while I get in and out of the tub."

Merely snorting, and not bothering to raise his attention from his father's legendary weapon, Garosh sneered as nastily as he could manage, "You flatter yourself, you have nothing I want to see again, you're a maggot coloured stick. Now wash off that horrid stench you wear, before I make good on my earlier promise, and throw you across my knee to peel the skin off your ass with a crop!"

With an audible sigh, Finnall undressed and stepped into the tub. The water was murky from the soap, dirt and dead skin cells left behind from Garrosh, but it still felt heavenly. Four of her could have fit comfortably in the tub. Finnall used the bar of soap to wash her hair, and used her fingers to pick a part the tangles.

She looked up from her tresses when Gout'cok returned, carrying a small wooden tray of food. He set it on a table by the door, looking quite nervous. Finnall rested her chin on her arms over the rim of the tub, the smell of rashers of bacon wafted from the plate and into hers' and Garroshs' nostrils.

"What did you bring Gout'cok?" Garrosh growled, he crossed the room dressed in unlaced breeches with Gorehowl still in hand; he looked down at the tray and plastered on a sinister smirk. "Swine, eggs, and what's this?" Garrosh picked up a fruited loaf, topped with a generous layer of butter, "Is this what slaves are eating these days? "Garrosh wondered dangerously. He dropped the loaf back onto the plate, looming a foot over the younger Orc.

"No Warchief".

"Well come now, surely you heard my instructions?" Garrosh went on, stroking his deadly weapon pointedly.

Gout'cok glanced down at the axe, with a sort of wild spasm. "Yes Warchief b-but the girl is small, and I thought she might need some fattening up some- So I t-took- I took the initiative and brought her some wholesome food." Gout'cok was positively withering under the heat of Garrosh's malice, he stood hunched, looking like a whipped cur waiting for a blows that never came. Both Finnall and Gout'cok jumped when Garrosh threw his head back, and roared with laughter.

"It seems that you have gained an ally here, wench!" Garrosh exclaimed to Finnall, with an unexpected grin; he sobered as soon as he turned back to his squire. "Disobey me again and I will see to it that your hide is made into loincloths, for the Dwarves."

"Warcheif." Gout'cok bowed.

"Get out of my sight!" Gout'cok nearly fell from his haste to obey.

Finnall stifled a laugh under compressed lips, causing Garrosh to round on her. "Already you are affecting my brothers!" He snarled, as if Gout'cok's behavior was completely her fault.

"It must be my dazzling good looks." Finnall drawled, with a toothy smile.

Garrosh fixed her with his most pronounced sneer yet, but he bit his tongue so as to not further the issue; it would only end with him breaking her neck. "Get dressed and eat. You won't need the bells today."

After dressing in her slave rag, Finnall wolfed down her food, but it wasn't because Garrosh stood threateningly over her eager for her to disobey him, but because she was thoroughly famished, still chewing her last bit of the fruit loaf, Garrosh marched out of the room, with long strides she had to run to keep up with.

They reached a small room, where a pale blue Troll, littered with piercings stood hunched in front of a massive box; he held a flagon, and a pouch.

"Warchief," Jamal acknowledged Garrosh, but his eyes were all for his patient, who was looking nervously at the contents in his hands.

Garrosh grunted his acknowledgment of the potion doctor then closed the door. He scooped Finnall up, ignoring her wiggling in protest, and then walked over to the box, placing her to stand in it.

"What's going on?" Finnall demanded.

"Me name Ja'mal, of the Darkspear Clan. I am here ta give ya a potion, on da Warchief's orders"

"What sort of potion is it?"

"In here is a potion call livin' death gal". Jamal said, holding up the pouch. "Ye must drink all dis watah befar ya can take the drought"

"But what does it do?" Finnall shrieked.

"It will only make you sleep, 'ave no fear, it nah 'arm ya"

Finnall turned to Garrosh desperately, "Why must I take it?" She whispered, intended only for his ears.

"Did you not hear the Troll? It won't harm you; it will only make you sleep." Garrosh replied, unsure why he too was whispering, and giving assurance of safety to his prisoner, when he had every right to shove the bottle down her throat. Garrosh turned back to the Troll. "Do you know the right dose; she is smaller than your usual patients."

Ja'mal's hair bristled with indignation, "Of course I do, Warchief." Jamal pulled a dark blue vial out of the pouch, and a dropper. He then pulled the cork out with a squeak and a pop, and filled the dropper to the third line. "Tree line will do".

"No, I am not taking it, I hate potions, I don't take them unless I am dreadfully ill".

"I promise ye gal, it nah arm ya."

"Enough of this!" Garrosh roared, "Ja'mal administer the potion, mutt be silent!"

Finnall crossed her arms stubbornly. "I said I am not taking it! I suppose you think you will lock me in this box, drunk on unnatural sleep, for light know's what reason. I won't have it!"

Garrosh growled, and grabbed her damp braid; yanking her head back to the nape of her neck. He bent so his tusks were dangerously close to gouging out one of her eyeballs.

"You will take it, if you know what's good for you, wench." He held out his hand, snapping his fingers. "The water!" Ja'mal handed Garrosh the massive flagon, then he held it to her lips, the pewter clanked against her clenched teeth.

Snarling Garrosh drew her close, puncturing her back on his armour; he released her braid and shoved his claws between her lips to pry open her jaw. Finnall bit down on his fingers, so he grasped her forehead and drew her even closer. Finnall gasped in pain, as she was impaled on the spikes of his breastplate, when she felt her blood wetting her back, only then did she reluctantly drink the water that he poured down her throat, while holding her firmly against him. When she finished Garrosh stroked her hair, cooing mockingly at her, "good little mutt" He purred. "What would happen if we doubled her dose?"

"She will edah sleep longah, or be poison. Ar Human blood can't take dis brew in large quantities."

Garrosh swore. "That is too bad, it would have been nice to have her sleep for as long as it takes to break this curse."

"Now gal, I will give you da drought, do not make the Warchief have to manhandle you again." He placed the dropper between her teeth, and a foul liquid coated her tongue.

"How long does it take to work." Finnall asked with her face scrunched up.

"Two, maybe tree minute." Ja'mal replied. "Lie down gal."

Finnall obeyed with a pout; thankfully the box was lined with cushions, and had plenty of breathing holes, and room to stretch her legs mostly.

"Don't snore." Garrosh warned her smiling triumphantly.

"I hope we die from this." Finnall replied with a yawn, then fell into a deep comatose state.

"Do you have a sealing potion, I don't know how bad she's bleeding, but I can smell it."

Ja'mal breathed in deeply, nodding. "Her blood smell sweet. Can I 'arvest some Warchief, har blood may come in useful, then I will seal har up."

Garrosh agreed, but upon inspection they found her wounds were already healing, and not deep in the first place, so Ja'mal did not get as much as he hoped. "Damn shame too, she being Human and Elf in one, dat be hard to come by, I would have made some potent elixirs." He said sourly.

"Today won't be the last time the little wench gets me to draw her blood, I am sure you will gain another chance." With that being said, he picked up the box with Finnall in it, and headed to the board for some flesh. Today was going to be a long day. Garrosh hoped no one had the gall to seek knowledge of what was in the box.


	4. H A T

Chapter Four

**Here and There**

Garrosh Hellscream was not an accomplished hunter; he lacked the patience and discipline for lurking in the shadows to stalk his prey. He preferred the rush of open battle with his fellow brothers in arms at his side. Cleaving through enemy lines only feast on the flesh of beast after a glorious battle and then pound his blood hardened flesh into the dripping core of a victory frenzied female still covered in the gore of the defeated, that was his way. How things were to change; Garrosh blinked and then turned his scrutiny away from the crate where Finnall slept. "How_ could the very elements hinder me_?" He wondered aloud. Feeling defiled a familiar feeling of abjection stole over him that reminded him of his torment in Nagrand.

If Garrosh Hellscream, ruler of the Horde was to be tied humiliatingly to an Alliance wench, he pondered the reasoning for why a headstrong and relentless blight of a mongrel was chosen; half- breeds always did all in their power to prove themselves worthy of their unnatural lives. Garrosh recalled how hard Finak Bywater fought, when presented her red slave dress and ankle bells. He scoffed when he remembered the feeling of her blunt nails clawing pathetically at his roughened hide; despite his rain of blows to her head. He could easily picture the bitch slitting her own throat in retribution of his blowing Theramore into a pit of rubble. She was a blot to all his wondrous plans for continental domination.

Garrosh looked down at his plate, the fact that Gout'cok served him the same meal that the Mutt swallowed only an hour ago stripped him of his appetite. The pup's fascination with the girl was off-putting, and it filled him with unquestionable malevolence, and inexplicable envy.

Garrosh strayed off the path of honor but for a moment when he stole the Focusing Iris. Was Finnak Bywater's presence a punishment for his misdeed? Was his towing the line between tactics and honor a mistake? Doubts began to gnaw at him from within; all because of the girl.

Then he remembered Malkorok's words, they confirmed the growing thought that right before the curse plagued him had taken root in his mind: There was no line between tactic and honor, not when the enemy was of a different species without honor themselves, and honor was in victory, and for victory the price was the total annihilation of the alien enemy. These were the laws of the world in which his father prepared him for, the strong defeated the weak, and a Hellscream is never weak. Garrosh could remember the shame in Grom when he had fallen sick with red pox, Garrosh could remember how weak he was, how much smaller and undesirable he was, but his father went on to shame his people and only in his glorious death could he make up for it, but it would be different with him he would not shame his people he would be their cure, he would give them axe, and blade, and purpose once more. His bay would shake their shields, and the dawns would soon be red.

Those contemplations invigorated him so much that when Malkorok barged in unannounced, he did not think to reprehend him for the offense.

"Everyone has arrived except Vol'jin. However, I expected the stinking Troll to be late; you know how Trolls are." The grey Orc mimed smoking a pipe of herb.

Usually mocking Vol'jin got a positive reaction from his Warchief. The Blackrock's grin slowly faded, as he observed Garrosh's deranged mien. "What's wrong?" Malkorok demanded.

"I must delay the attack on Theramore." Garrosh replied, picking up his cup of water and drinking from it.

Malkorok's face hardened like stone, before taking on a fiendish edge that twisted his brutish features into a forged smile. He laughed ironically, and hid his tightened fists beneath the table. Suddenly his beloved Warchief was not so beloved; for the crime of damning his blood lust.

"It is no jest, Malkorok." Garrosh began, misinterpreting his bodyguard's laugh completely. "I mean to delay all plans of aggression against Kalimdor. The bomb will have to stay hidden." He finished seriously.

Malkorok shook his head and cringed, as though a mosquito was buzzing in his ear. "We have the Iris but do not forget that even now Kalecgos is attempting to find it. Warchief, I must protest this new design of yours, it is too risky."

Garrosh rubbed his face in the palm of his hand, to soothe his raging nerves "This bomb… It's becoming a nuisance. It represents everything that is dishonorable, why I considered it in the first place defeats me at this moment".

"For tactic's sake! "Malkorok snarled in disbelief. "Warchief, haven't I- that is, haven't _**you**_ seen the full advantage of taking out Theramore, in one stroke of the axe? To hesitate is to be weak; you are Warchief, your duty is to grasp all within reach, for our people!"

Garrosh stroked his lip, and his freshly shaven chin, a mark of his faltering faith in himself. "Do you truly think I want to hesitate? My plans for Kalimdor are flawless!" He practically groaned.

Malkorok built on that doubt. "Did you not stop to think of what harboring that much mana for longer than necessary means? Eventually someone will sense it, and all of our plans will be in ruins!"

"None will find out I have the Focusing Iris, its mana is well hidden, not even Thrall could sense its power if he were here." Garrosh replied confidently. "Let us betray the Alliance scum with a false sense of security; I admit it will be more amusing this way. Jaina will think me becoming a pacifist, and how proud Thrall will be."

Malkorok cackled, but sobered at once. "Even so, Warchief, how long-

Garrosh growled, pounding his fists on the table, upsetting his breakfast. "You are supposed to be my bodyguard, your duty to me is to protect my life! Last night as I lay in bed, I thought of the wretched curse laid upon me, and I saw reason behind it. I can call every Orc to Origammar, and for what? Not all of them are competent for the trials of war. You can set one thousand untrained grunts against one hundred well trained Night elves, and they will be as useful as Jaina Proudmoore's flapping lips. We cannot solely rely on sheer number and our superior strength!"

"What do you suggest we do, train every single Orc for combat?" He asked incredulously.

"That is exactly what I suggest!" The promise of action stimulated Garrosh's senses; he stood and paced the room as he continued to speak. "The Orcs have survived camps before, and these camps will be nothing like the degrading prisons, set up by the hideous humans. Recruits will be fed well on a diet of flesh and combative training; we will strengthen our presence in the Ashenvale forest, but only for cultivating the lands. Those who aren't fit to train at our camps will become peons to feed the cause. The Alliance tries to attack our settlements in Ashenvale because they are relatively isolated, but no more!" Garrosh growled.

"Are these camps for the Orcs only? What then of the lesser Horde races?"

"They too will have segregated camps under Orc supervision, all deserters who try to Goblin their way out of service, will join the ranks of the peons."

"What of Alliance spies? Won't Wrynn look to these camps, and see them for what they truly are, preparation for war against their blue rags?"

"Oh I know the dogs in blue will be wary of these camps, they will suspect my reasoning for training every head in the faction, but what can they do? If they make any move against us, we will simply trigger the bomb, it will be in self-defense, and none can argue that". Garrosh replied, giving the box a once over and nodding with confidence.

"For how long will these camps last, how long until we lead the Grunts to war?" Malkorok pressed.

"When you find me a cure to this curse, Malkorok, then I am free to kill every man woman and child who is against the Horde, but with the Alliance wench tied to me like a disease, I am crippled!" Garrosh snarled, pointing an accusatory finger at the box. "What do you think she will do if I destroy all she knows and loves? And not only that, I am two targets now, with her life tied to mine".

"You think she will seek vengeance on you, if you bomb Theramore and take Kalimdor? You think she has the gut to end her life to end yours?" Said Malkorok with skepticism all over his face.

"Oh I know the little bitch does. I am no fool brother, grief and love are strong emotions, and they allow for the unthinkable". Garrosh said, with a sneer on his mouth.

Malkorok thought it would have been an honorable sacrifice on the Warchief's part, in exchange for an entire continent of riches for the Horde, but he merely said: "You are right, I did not think, Warchief."

"Well think next time, we must keep our wits about us if the Horde is to rule over all."

"I will cure you of the half-breed's influence, Warchief. Even if it's the last thing I do, it will be done."

"That is good Malkorok," Garrosh replied, with a stiff nod. "Also, I will continue to count on you to expel my enemies from inside of the Hordes ranks. We must have none who would doubt my rule, let no traitor benefit from our victory."

Malkorok grinned, passing his tongue over his teeth at the promise of sating his blood lust unchecked, on the traitors. "These camps will aide in that cause." He growled.

"And I look to employ the molten giants for our cause, when the time comes." Garrosh added, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

Malkorok chuckled appreciatively, the panic he felt just minutes ago vanished. His Warchief truly was going to be the savior of them all.

* * *

Finnall looked down at her bare feet; the white marble on which she stood on, had beautiful veins of pink quartz woven into it. All was quiet except for the trickling of a large fountain in the dead center of the large room; it fed water into thin canals against the walls, between pillars of a curious green colored stone. She looked up; there was no ceiling for the room, only the blue sky above decorated with thin wisps of cloud.

Finnall walked past the fountain, and out the open door, with her bare feet pattering on the floor like rainfall. The door led to a garden of statues, shaped into the many creatures she knew in the world, and others she had never seen or heard of before. All housed together, on the slope of an emerald hill.

At the bottom of said hill there was a meadow of small purple and red flowers, as beautiful as jewels; they peppered the grass all the way to the borders of what looked like an ancient forest. In the middle of the field there was a small pool; it called out to Finnall to bathe in its waters. She slowly made her way down the knoll, stopping every now and then to examine each beautifully crafted statue.

Everything was pristine, but had an air of sadness that Finnall could not comprehend. She did not belong in this beautiful place, and was aware that at any moment it would all be taken away from her. Just as she was about to panic that fact, the pool seemed to thrum the air again, reminding the visitor of the bath she must take to ease her worries.

Finnall stood peering at her reflection, and was enthralled to see that in it her broken nose was straight and beaky once more with that prominent Proudmoore's hump. The scabs on her lips from the back of Malkorok's hand were gone, leaving her perfectly plump, heart shaped mouth blemish free. Finnall touched her face but the flaws were still there. She was about to feel the deceiving mirror when-

"Do not touch the water of that pool!"

Finnall spun around at the sound of voice, and nearly sobbed in relief when she saw the beautiful face of her mother, looking even younger than she remembered it to be.

"It can't be". Finnall gasped. "Mother, you're alive?"

Kilnar's laugh was like the tinkling of the fountain, in the large roofless room up the hill.

"Don't be silly, my little dove".

"But then how are you here?" Finnall realized at once that she was asking the wrong question. "Where am I?"

"Now_** that**_ is a question." Said Kilnar nodding her approval. She ran her thumb over Finnall's crooked nose. "You refuse magic, even to heal yourself." It wasn't a question; it was Kilnar who constantly warned Finnall of their species addiction to magic when she was a girl, and was secretly relieved when Finnall became a warrior like her father, instead of a sorcerer like herself.

"That pool, why do I feel a call to jump into its waters, it's almost unbearable."

"It is a rare thing for a visitor to gain excess to this place; the pool would tie you here forever. You would not wake up from the Troll's magic".

"So, I would die?"

"Eventually, as we all do." Kilnar replied with a shrug. "Walk with me."

Finnall made to follow in the direction of her mother's choosing, but in the blink of an eye she was no longer in the meadow by the pool, but in a stark white room that was gorgeously furnished. Kilnar led her daughter to a balcony with no rail; on it was a small brass table, with two silver chairs.

A comfortable quiet passed between mother and daughter, a sweet breeze blew ebony and wheat colored locks in harmony.

Kilnar broke the silence with her musical timbre. "There are powers outside of the realms of living that are unfathomable until death. These powers cannot be influenced, or absorbed, not even by fate. There are times, when fate will manage to borrow from these powers, and only then can destiny be changed, horrors eradicated." The last part came out as a hiss.

"You speak of the letters?" Finnall asked.

"Of course" Kilnar confirmed, filling a chalice with a golden liquid, that shone as brilliantly as the now setting sun, she offered none to Finnall. "The one you call Garrosh Hellscream will be the bringer of doom to many. He will rape lands, and enslave the innocent. Like his father before him, he is drawn to power like a fly is to rot."

"And what am I supposed to do about that exactly?" Finnall inquired warily, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I am but food to him, a slave meant to give him a body to unleash his malice upon. I have an inkling that my presence will only make him worse."

"You would not have been chosen, if it was to make him worse."

"Well, these powers that you speak so highly of made a mistake, because if they have seen Garrosh's way with me, they would know that anyone who isn't like him, is against him. I am not like him, nor will I pretend to be."

"The forces of nature make no mistakes!" Kilnar exclaimed, after downing her drink in one go. "You were chosen as his most ideal soul mate, down to the smallest percentage of failure. If anyone can sooth his greed for world domination, and turn it into something more wholesome, it is you.

Finnall laughed in earnest "Me? Finnall Goldensword, half-blood bastard, loyal to Dalaran and the soul mate of the son of Grom?" Finnall continued to laugh boisterously into one of her hands, holding the other up in apology for the disrespect of her actions.

"I have heard of more impossible things happening." Kilnar replied, matter- of- factly.

Only when Finnall's raucous laughter finally died down to half-hearted chuckles was she able to say: "It would have made more sense, if the powers connected my idiotic half-sister with Thrall. That match is more realistic, and it would have prevented Garrosh from ever holding a position he should never have been given. The man is insane!"

"Jaina is not Thrall's soul mate, Aggra is". Kilnar informed her simply, "and they are together, and she is with child."

Finnall shrugged, "good for them. While Thrall is away making babies, Hellscream will rape lands, and enslave the innocent. I heard rumors of Thralls intelligence, I could think of one bit of evidence that puts that claim to shame, and it sits on a throne, in the heart of Origammar."

"_Global peace can soon be at hand, when a tyrant's heart is in your command._" Kilnar muttered.

"Do not quote that dreaded letter to me." Finnall said dejectedly, looking over the landscape, to the green hills that put her one green eye to shame, lain as it was in a seemingly endless and vibrant blanket. The pink of the sky was more brilliant than the pinkest tulips in their old garden in Dalaran. "How could I, a half-breed warrior of the Alliance appeal to one like the Warcheif, enough to deny him what his blood makes his traits?"

"You are one of the living, it is hard for you to grasp concepts such as true love, you have never felt the ultimate loss; the loss of life. Trust me, little dove, if I had been one of the living I would be as ignorant to the grand scheme of things as you are. If I were alive, the idea of my only daughter being connected this closely with a villainous Orc would have bent me with tears."

"You speak of love, are you saying that Garrosh and I could possibly come to love each other?" Finnall exhaled, and shook her head solemnly. "Garrosh could never love me, he could never love anyone."

"You forget of your beauty dearest." Kilnar remarked, seriously.

"Do not jest mother!" Finnall groaned. "We both know that this body could never meet the standards of a prejudice Orc, and even if it did, what are you saying I do? Lie on my back and charm him? I think not, I would die first!"

"I understand the Warchief's heart more than you Finnall, and so do the elements, so does the power that bonded you. Garrosh is not truly evil, but he loves to conquer much too deeply, there are sources that would feed off that and taint him".

"He would destroy all that he conquers!" Finnall spat feeling disgust.

"But he cannot destroy _**you**_!" Kilnar snapped, impatient with her daughter's lack of understanding. "Don't you see? You must become the thing he wishes to conquer, and since he cannot kill you, he must find another way".

"With love?" Finnall asked incredulously.

"An unbreakable force, when it is true". Kilnar began, "more pure than water, and more addictive than magic."

"It would never work, we are too different!"

"And that is why it must be you. Your beauty is in your hands at this point; your skill in battle, your endless courage, Garrosh will come to see it, and love you for it. Take the time to show him."

"Where is my choice in all of this? Did the powers not think of that? Who says I want to come to love him, whether he is my soul mate or not? I don't want to like him, and I do not!" Finnall slammed her fists on the table, spilling the decanter of golden nectar. "I could not!"

"For now." Kilnar replied patiently, and with a sweep of her hand the mess was cleared. "It is the things you do not have in common that make you as compatible as the things you do. You were not chosen as a punishment Finnall, many would be glad to be placed by fate itself with their most ideal partner; to live by them, and die by them."

"And how many of those dreamers were Half-elves, tethered by invisible chains to abusive, dull witted Orcs?"

"Perhaps you require visual proof, They said you would."

"And who are They, exactly?" Finnall asked, crossing her arms across her chest sullenly.

"I will show you a glimpse of your future with Garrosh, perhaps if you see the two of you getting on well, it will seem less unbelievable that it could happen."

"Alright then, _**oblige**_ me." Finnal said with a lazy flick of her wrist. Kilnar reached across the table, and grabbed Finnall by the arm, suddenly they were no longer on the balcony, but in the middle of that ancient forest, in a meadow on hollow ground. Surrounded by tall pillar like trees was a well of smooth grey stone; Kilnar led Finnall to it with a hand on the small of her back.

"Look into the waters, and be careful not to fall in."

"Won't you look as well?"

"Me?" Kilnar's nose wrinkled a bit "No, I'd rather not. And even if I wanted to, two people cannot share what the well shows at the same time."

Finnall sighed dejectedly, "Alright then, I will look. Though I am afraid of what my future holds regarding the Warchief." She looked into the well, it seemed like no one had ever put a bucket to the water, it was filled to the brim, and somehow it did not seep through the cracks of the stone casing. The water was pure enough that the setting sun behind the trees was enough light to show its bottom, which was covered in colorful luminescent stones. Kilnar touched a finger to the water, and when she withdrew it the ripples seemed to harden, becoming more viscous by the second; until it looked hard like the glass panes of a window.

In the water window, a moving picture was formed. Finnall recognized what she was seeing as Garrosh's high pile of furs, where he slept. She instantly felt a feeling of foreboding. He was kneeling on it facing the large ornamental skull headboard, with his head bowed as though in worship. The view changed to a Birdseye view of the entire bed. The present Finnall let out a cry, she saw herself occupying the furs as well. Her hair was sprawled across the pillows, and she was naked, biting her lip, and twirling a tendril of her hair in a loathsome attempt to look alluring, but her attempt was a success regardless of what her present self-thought of it, for Garrosh disappeared under the thin red sheet that covered her lower body.

Present Finnall gasped in unison with the traitor in the well, except instead of raising her trembling fingers to her open mouth in horror; her future-self (with no sense of caution towards Garroshs' lethal tusks) wrapped her thighs around his neck, and kicked the sheets from their bodies. Raking her nails against his scalp, her back arched gracefully off the bed, from overwhelming pleasure...

"Enough! I've seen enough!" Finnall cried, taking a step back from the well. She was red in the face, and from her shame she spoke to the ground. "You raised me to look at people as individuals; I make no generalizations about the members of the Horde, unless they are forsaken. My refusal to except what I saw in the well has nothing to do with sharing my father's prejudices," Finnall raised a shaking finger to the well, "but that was wrong!"

"There were some who said the same of the love I bore for your father. It was my power that kept you safe from the taunts your fellow brethren face."

"I know that! And you are naive to think I did not suffer when your back was turned, it was only that I did not tell you. Have you forgotten the years Jaina lived in Dalaran? Bastard and liar they still call me, and the Warchief, he knows me as mutt."

"I am sorry for the pain I caused you, my love." Kilnar said, sighing sadly. "We are not here to speak of the past, but trust me-

"It is always darkest before the dawn." Finnall supplied, and Kilnar nodded gratefully at the tired but true line.

"Finnall, you must remain a Dalarian, be neutral, do not join the Horde, even if Garrosh begs it of you."

"Why would-"

"You must leave now."

"What? No, not yet mother!"

"Do you not feel the hand of your mate?" Kilnar asked, with an ironic smile.

"Feel what?" Finnall gasped, her face was beginning to sting and the more she concentrated on the sensation, the more aware she was of her head being turned left, and then right against her will.

"Goodbye Finnall, until we meet again." Kilnar said lovingly, she kissed Finnall's hand tenderly, so many emotions given through the act. "Do no forget you are each other's soul mate; you will come to want him eventually, do not fight it. And do not mourn me; I have lived on Azeroth for nearly a thousand years. I am in no sorrow here."


	5. G G G

The Strong Interaction is one of the four known fundamental forces of nature. It's the energy that holds together Protons and Neutrons. Это прекрасно!

Chapter Five

**Goda's Gruesome Gruel**

* * *

Garrosh felt there was something oddly arousing knowing the half-breed's suffering was completely under his control; it did not stir him in the pants, but set a gratifying ambience that made him forget how much he loathed her presence. Garrosh knew it was a shameful punishment to starve someone, but the mutt caused a slew of dishonourable urges in him, and he delighted in the music that came from her stomach. Finnak was all pouts and the reek of anger, but for once she knew her place and looked on without complaint, as he shoveled oxen into his mouth with greasy fingers. From the looks of it Elves enjoyed starving themselves anyways; perhaps his discipline was giving her great pleasure.

"Are you Hungry?" Garrosh inquired unnecessarily, her stomach sounded like a symphony of bullfrogs rumbling a reminder that comfort was only a spoonful away.

Finnall stared mutely at the ceiling; pursing her lips condescendingly.

"You can ignore me all you want," Garrosh managed to jeer, his full mouth gushed with juice and fat. "We both know that you are famished." He cracked open a knob of bone with a tusk and dug out the marrow within.

Finnall Goldensword was no stranger to hunger; as a proficient and dedicated sniper her honor was linked with sacrifice, making her more than capable of relishing the pain of self-denial. Before the Cataclysm Finnall commanded a small but potent guerrilla militia, many times her career demanded she tie herself in trees for days and weeks on end, with few provisions to risk giving her position away. When starvation made her desperate, Finnall took solace in the fact that her comrades were close by, and too suffered in silence. Only now she was far from home and her fellows, so the smell of food and the sounds of satisfaction from another enjoying it was torture.

"It would be a pleasure to starve, if only to bring your death, Hellscream." Finnall's belittling declaration somewhat lessoned the cramp in her stomach, and she was able to erect her back again.

Garrosh had Gout'cok spare her naught but a bowl of corn mash gruel every other morning, and if she was lucky a bit of bread at night. True to his word, every scrap of food she ate was paid for, by entertaining the savage inside him. Garrosh made her do pointless busy work such as scrubbing the floor around his throne, while he draped over the elaborate chair to brood, and made use of her as a foot stool. Whenever she protested one of his humiliating demands he would happily put her "back in line" with the riding crop he recently took to wearing on his hip. It was well that Gout'cok had compassion; when it was given the lad would spread an indecent amount of butter on her bread and sometimes hid lumps of meat in her gruel. Finnall could tell the Warchief noticed the gifts; the mystery was why he pretended not to.

Garrosh burped massively, and patted his chest. "Go on then and starve, but know this: hunger is a long and cruel tale." He grinned wickedly, and threw a spoon from the table to her feet. "Better to end it quick, wench." He sneered, moving onto a plate of pork ribs to begin his dance again.

Finnall looked down at the spoon and then back up to Garrosh as he stabbed an orange, and squeezed the juice into his mouth with his bare hands. Finnall eyed the sad shell of the shriveled up fruit, and was reminded of her own predicament. "Your love of seeing people suffer will one day be your demise, slop sucker." She ground out through clenched teeth.

"Is that a fact?" Garrosh's face darkened with ire, her insult left a bad taste in his mouth, and the haughtiness of her bearing demanded a reminder of her situation, so he picked up a hollow knob of bone and hurled it at her face, catching her on the already busted nose. "You ruin my appetite simply with your presence, why add words?"

Finnall sucked in a curse, rubbing the appendage sullenly, "I am not here by choice! Anywhere on Azeroth is more pleasing to be then with you!"

"Tell me scum, in all the Alliance's squalor where does a half-breed's twat find pleasure?" Garrosh sniggered nastily, "there are no places on this stone where your kind is esteemed… You mules are as desirable as red pox!"

Finnall drew herself up to her full height, and folded her arms across her chest coolly. "And you would know all about red pox, you were once a diseased ridden dog yourself!"

It was her calm demeanor that undid him, Garrosh stood while licking the grease from his fingers, looking both pleased and formidable. "You will regret your cheek, you bitch." He spat with satisfaction.

Only for a moment did Finnall feel regret for her words; Garrosh was a tall and dense mountain of muscle, when he clenched his muscle seemed to grow muscle. He arched his back, flexing his sausage thick fingers in an invitation for her to run forward to death, and then letting out a mighty roar he charged her.

Garrosh's shoulder barely managed to clip Finnall's elbow, to her the large Orc was clumsy and slow. "You will have to be faster than that, you fat headed oaf." A fortnight in the Warchief's ceaseless company already had her jeering in a way similar to him.

Garrosh grabbed wildly for the mongrel, but managed to only finger the air. She lunged and rolled between his massive legs, giggling whole heartedly from the game. "How boring, Hellscream, you fight like the rotting corpse of a slug." Grunting, she kicked the back of his knee with enough force to make him buckle.

A club for a fist made for the crook of Finnall's shoulder, but she easily evaded it by arching her back gracefully towards the ground; using his own momentum against him, Finnall elbowed his exposed shoulder with a sickening thud, and then quickly leapt away as agilely as a mountain goat. Behind him she gave three quick and firm jabs to his kidneys. Finnall knew one solid hit from Garrosh to the right place could kill her, so she decided rightly to evade him until he tired, while besotting the back of him with her fist and bare foot. It went on that way for some time; Garrosh would grab for her, only to be side stepped and assaulted on his right knee, until eventually he was brought down upon it. Garrosh could not hide the naked expression of shock on his face from being forced to his knees by a half starved mongrel.

Finnall's gleaming smile of triumph was cut short by the roar Garrosh let out; she had to stop her ears from the waves it exerted. Then like a python Garrosh struck, biting down upon her shoulder he brought her down to the floor to smother with the full weight of his upper body. Finnall was too stunned by the viciousness and speed of the attack to feel the pain of his sharp teeth grazing her bones. She gasped and bucked beneath him, barely able to stand his weight.

Garrosh felt the euphoria that came exclusively from battle. Disconcerted of course that the feeling could come so intensely from an inferior opponent, but he was pleased nonetheless. The Warchief's mouth was smeared with her life's essence; the rest of his meal lay forgotten on the table.

Garrosh licked his lips and teeth slowly, and deliberately; his pupils' dilated as he savored the rich taste of her blood. The smell of the delicious fear in her sweat perfumed the air around him, and tested his restraint. He then buried his face into her neck, eliciting a throaty gasp; his eyes closed at the sound, and his brain swam in a haze of bliss. Garrosh felt that wondrous combination of rejuvenation and the need for a relaxing nap; sensations experienced after a good fuck. '_So sweet, so perfect, all mine'_, His thoughts were a drunken chaos.

Garrosh grasped her by the chin and pulled her to her feet after him. Bending to lap up the blood that trickled from her wound rendered him incapable of comprehending why she would watch him with such fascination etched upon her features.

"I thought that was forbidden?" Finnall murmured, finally finding her voice. She cringed ever so slightly when he removed his mouth from her shoulder.

"It is forbidden for an intelligent being to eat another being of equal status." Garrosh explained huskily into her ear; the warm blast of his breath held her in place. "You may walk on two feet, but clearly you are no thinking animal." He grabbed her hair to tilt her head for better access to the gravy. Finnall flinched when he tongued her again. "If you were intelligent, you would have gotten the perilousness of your insolence." Garrosh licked a drop of her blood from his thumb, causing his eyes to roll helplessly from pleasure. He mashed his tongue to his bloody lip, as though it were covered in honey. "In other words you are food, a bag of meat that I will tenderize until the moment I can fully enjoy your taste."

Finnall's eyes became tiny planets at his words, but before she could recollect her vision in the well, Garrosh pushed her roughly towards his table, demanding that she eat. There was still a sizable plate of ribs, and a few pieces of fruit. "Eat," he repeated with a growl, when she looked unsure of her luck.

Pride and fear were of no issue here; Finnall took his seat and then began ripping meat from the bone with violent swings of her head. Garrosh grunted his approval, before he ripped a long strip of the table cloth and wordlessly bandaged her wound. She would have to do without the proper ointments; if it festered later, she would be punished for her weakness.

Garrosh huffed impatiently; he needed the scent of her blood out of his nostrils, but the taste of it to forever remain on his tongue. Her blood was like the richest stew, he reckoned it was folly for him to have fed from her while the curse was in session. Maybe to feast on her flesh was the cure for it; her flavor could distract his battle lust for a time, it was certainly making a fool of him now.

Garrosh regarded her with heavily lidded eyes. He fully understood now why Thrall forbid the eating of her species, if there were others with half her smack, the Humans would be farmed like cattle, and the Blood Elves would run with fear from the Horde emblem; it was a delicious picture.

With her cheeks bulging and her lips moist with grease, Finnall felt that she could cry from happiness; unbeknownst to her were the Warchief's hideous thoughts. She beamed gratefully at her tormentor, and the smile he returned was a shark's grimace.

"Who made these ribs? They are delicious."

"Goda Elf-killer, she has a talent with meat, doesn't she?" Garrosh grinned in a way Finnall had never seen him grin before.

Finnall pursed her lips disapprovingly and shrugged. "I've made better swine."

Garrosh snorted but grinned in spite of it all. "You should tell her that when you get the chance; it ought to be amusing, if not deadly for the both of us."

"With a name like Elf-killer, how could it not be?" Finnall supplied a gentle laugh and then sighed, with a full stomach she was feeling content. "Maybe one day when you learn to play nice and not bite I will make you some of my ribs, _**Warchief**_."

Garrosh narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, becoming serious. "When I want to be poisoned, I will let you know."

"Yes, I suppose poisoning you would be very tempting, and well within my rights." Finnall admitted, winking roguishly.

"I feel the same way about eating you." Garrosh retorted, with a disconcerting gleam in his eyes.

Finnall choked on a mouthful of the vittles, and then blushed when a vision of Garrosh impaling her with his tongue flashed in her mind's eye, sending a jolt of regrettable arousal to her nether lips. Finnall's eyes went to his lethal looking mouth, curious to know what would possess her to have it so close to her quim. Could it really be love? The implications horrified her.

"What are you doing?" Garrosh's rough bark cut through her reveries.

"What do you mean?"

Garrosh shook his head to clear it, and wiped the sweat from the back of his head with his hand. "Never you mind, get up, I have shit to do."

When Finnall graced him with her practiced façade of ignorance, which usually riled him up, Garrosh merely scoffed and turned on his heel. He did not have to waste words on the Half-breed, not when he could drag her in the direction of his choosing by their chains.

Garrosh refrained from drawing deep breaths of air, he knew the smell of fear and he knew the smell of arousal well enough, and he caught the scent of a curious mix of both coming from the Bywater bitch when she ogled his jaw; he decided not to further the issue, he was loath having to regret the vile outcome; whatever it may be. He eyed Finnall's slim thighs skeptically, and then with a dismissive toss of his head he chortled darkly.

Garrosh made way to the throne room and considered removing Finnak's bells (ankle and all), because every step she took was accompanied annoyingly by jangles, reminding him of her ceaseless company. He cursed the Alliance hog arrogant enough to place this scheme on him! Garrosh decided then to send Wrynn her head, when he managed to break the curse.

Seeing that Jastor and Malkorok were also making their way to the throne room; Garrosh decided to continue on to his study, it was best he avoid competant noses until his frazzled nerves were in order. However, it became clear that Gallywax wanted to speak about the camps, and the possible riches in store from them, for when the greedy imp caught scent of him he made his way over as quickly as his short legs would allow him. Garrosh waited with his hands clenching impatiently at his sides.

"Warchief," both Jastor and Malkorok said once reaching him.

"Make this fast Gallywax; surely you know I have toiling to do."

The Trade Prince returned his hat to his head and was about to speak, when the sound of bells stole his attention, he leaned his wobbly chin around Garrosh's back and saw Finnall standing there, dragging her toe against the floor. "And just who might you be?" Jastor grabbed Finnall's hand unceremoniously and pulled her around the Warchief, his intent to kiss her hand was clear, but a rumbling growl from Garrosh changed his mind, and he made do with a shake.

"Finak Bywater." Finnall replied awkwardly, grasping his plump hand.

The Goblin peered at Finnall questioningly, excepting her firm grip. "You blind in that eye?" Jastor squinted, pointing a bejewelled finger at her blue eye. He didn't wait for an answer but immediately turned back to Garrosh, Finnall's hand still held hostage in his. "I was hoping to speak with you in private, Warchief."

Garrosh's eyed the friendly exchange between Jastor and the Half-elf with disapproval. "Follow me to my study, and touch nothing of mine."

Releasing Finnak's hand, the trade prince showed Garrosh his open palms. "My apologies, Warchief, you know how hard it is for me to resist a pretty jewel."

Garrosh grunted, taking long strides to his study, muttering under his breath that Jastor had a strange eye for what could be considered a jewel.

When Finnall tagged along Jastor hesitated. "Will this…girl be accompanying us?"

Garrosh picked up his pace. "Consider her no different than a hunter's pet, at her masters' heels until death."

The Trade Prince now had to run to keep up, his pockets were loud from the sound of rattling golden coins, "but she is Alliance; I can practically smell it on her!"

"And she is my slave!" Garrosh barked over and down his shoulder.

Jastor looked very interested at this, "is that not more reason to not trust the lovely thing?"

"Worry not, she's an imbecile, and does not speak Orcish."

"How can you be sure?" Jastor's small legs pumped fast to keep up with Garrosh, though panting hard, he managed it.

When Garrosh stopped in his tracks to peer down at the trade prince, with his eyes brimming with impatience Malkorok stepped forward growling, "You dare question the Warchief?"

Jastor raised an eyebrow, "I do not. Only as a rule I do not speak business in the company of women, but if you insist, Warchief, I will not part you from your little…pet."

"I assure you she is too stupid to speak a lick of my tongue." Garrosh said firmly, he opened the door to his study and went straight to his seat.

"Straight to business then," Jastor began clapping his hands together, eagerly taking the seat in front of the desk.

Garrosh nodded curtly, pressing the pads of his fingers together while peering down at the boisterous Goblin.

"I do not think it wise to segregate the Horde races in these camps, for maximum productivity-

"You mean maximum profits in your deep pockets?" Malkorok cut in scornfully from the door, where he was leaning with his arms crossed.

"Precisely that," Jastor replied without a hint of offense.

"What do you mean Gallywax; you think I will have the undead mixing with hot blooded Orcs?"

Jastor looked thoughtful. "You know, I never remember to count Sylvana's corpses when I mention the Horde races."

Garrosh chuckled appreciatively, and even Malkorok cracked a small grin.

"I do not understand your need to separate the masses, it's a dangerous habit done only by vain autocrats, too blind to see that differences inspire greatness through friendly competition. We all share this stone and we all fight for the Horde, why force segregation on us?"

"Some races are better than others" Garrosh replied simply, his eyes naturally moved to Finnall after he said this. She was staring forlornly out the window, looking miserable dressed as a Peon.

Jastor looked slightly affronted but let the Warchief's words slide, he himself was no innocent after all. "Well you're the Warchief, if this is what you want… Would be easier to just… Well never mind. We will need lumber, and food supplies close to each camp, I have some very useful contacts for seed you know, but lumber is hard to come by in these parts."

"Yes more swine farms are needed, and it is imperative that we secure more land in Ashenvale for logging. I must put together a legion of both soldiers and Peons for this task".

Jastor nodded fervently.

The harsh rolling timbre of Orc tongue went on and on, until Finnall thought she would go mad from disinterest. She stood awkwardly in the corner by the window enduring Malkorok's frequent glares. Her father once mentioned the importance to learn the tongue of her enemies, no matter how foul it may be, but she never could grasp much of any other tongue but common, she just wasn't naturally as book smart or linguistic as her mother.

After over an hour of standing as still as she could, her bare feet began to ache on the hard floor, making her squirm. "May I sit?" Finnall groaned.

Garrosh regarded her with fierce irritation at being interrupted.

"May I sit, **_master_**?" Finnall corrected herself, biting her cheek lest she smile and force Garrosh to give her a beating to save face.

"On the floor, and shut up, if I hear those bells again I'll straighten your nose with my fist!"

Finnall gave him a stiff nod and sat cross legged on the floor.

Jastor let out a long whistle, "ah, to have a beautiful woman call you master, is there anything better besides gold?" This was said in common for Finnall's benefit.

"I wouldn't know; I have never had a beautiful female call me master yet." Garrosh replied monotonously.

"Oh phooey, you just don't know quality when it's right in front of ye, your "hunter's pet" is quite a resplendent thing."

Garrosh frowned shaking his head from irritation. "I wish to not waste any of my time speaking to or about my slave, unless I must."

"Of course, of course, only if she is a bother I can take her off your hands, there is a market for women like her; you'd be surprised at the amount of coin a fellow will pay for a bit of exotic cunny."

Unknown to the Warchief, Malkorok wasn't above a little black-market pussy himself, but he would not stand idle while the Goblin used such words on the Orc who was going to give all of Azeroth to their people, he crossed the room lickety-split, and hauled the Goblin to his feet by the back of his neck.

The act of paying for a romp was beyond despicable for an Orc to do, Jastor knew what he said was offensive, but said it anyways. It took every fibre of Garrosh's being to call off Malkorok before he ripped the Goblin's head from his shoulder, or better yet he himself reached out to strangle the sac of wine. "What you speak of is scandalous filth!"

"Yes but it's towards a slave."

"_**MY SLAVE**_!"Garrosh fumed, "do not look at her, nor shall you speak to her. Put all schemes regarding her out of your mind!"

"My, my, Warchief, are you this way about all your pets? I will remember to never touch a hair on one of your Wargs; the way you behave. " Jastor fixed the lapel on his expensive embroidered vest with a crooked half knowing grin. When Garrosh sat, he followed.

"This is no one's fault but your own; you must learn to hold your tongue Gallywax."

"Alright-alright I get it! Now can we please get back to business?"

Immediately they were back to speaking in Orc tongue, as if nothing transpired. Malkorok returned to his spot by the door and glared at Finnall as if the blow up was all her fault. Finnall concluded that males were the same everywhere. She was surprised that Garrosh's possessiveness would serve as a protection to her propriety. Finnall knew this now: the Warchief may see her as a curse but she was only his to suffer, and Hellscream was more than willing to slit the throat of any who had plans to cause her any sort of harm that wasn't his doing.

* * *

Malkorok entered the mess hall and looked around pointedly, his arrival usually signaled the arrival of the Warchief those days. As was expected of them everyone stood and saluted, bellowing 'For the Horde!'

Garrosh shoved Finnall forward when she literally staggered from the weight of collective malice, after a brief pause on the threshold. The massive chamber was of wood, enforced with sheets of metal like wall paper. There were large round windows like many layers of eyes, and red tapestries depicting horrid acts of violence hung everywhere. Finnall followed Garrosh between the long wooden tables and benches that were occupied mostly by Orcs. Most were dressed in red of some sort, and wore spiked leather and alloy armour; all of them stared at Finnall, as they would a certain rodent they had never seen before.

Garrosh climbed the stairs of a dais, where at a table richly clad Orcs sat; some brown, some green, and some greyish black. Finnall sat on the bottom stair like Garrosh instructed she do until he called upon her for whatever it was he needed.

It was good eat with fellow Orcs again for company, and not a hungry half-breed watching food go from the plate and to his mouth, with wide eyes that could sometimes make him feel wretched. The walls were decorated with the red tapestries depicting glorious scenes of battles past; Garrosh loved them.

"I haven't seen you here in a while, Warchief. What's with the girl? S'not like her kind to grace us with their presence here in the mess hall; snooty Blood-Elf bastards".

"Klondrug, can't you see that she wears slave bells, and sits on the step by her master's feet?" Malkorok drawled to the Mag'har, as he scraped dirt from his talons with a knife.

The Warlord looked down at her little feet and smirked, "Is that there an Alliance Elf?"

Garrosh nodded "Alliance yes, Elf in part; she's a half breed."

"Well wazzit doing here then?"

"She is here to serve me when I see it fit." Garrosh was growing really frustrated with having to explain Finnak's existence.

"But why?" Klondrug inquired out of disbelief, "we have no shortage of Peons, or those who serve you with faith and willingness in the hold, why use this Alliance Mongrel?"

"Long story short, this little blight got through all your defenses and tried to slay me as I slept. I keep her as a trophy and reminder to all of you of your failure."

"Well fuck me, little thing like that could slip in any little crack, can't blame the watch on mice getting into the hold."

"I can, and I do," Garrosh replied stiffly. "The watch is under your command, Klondrug; make sure it never happens again."

"Well this is the first I'm even hearing of this slip up."

"And it will not be your last." Garrosh replied moodily.

Finnall thought that accompanying Garrosh to the mess hall was his cruelest punishment yet; it wasn't enough to force her to watch him eat; now she had to sit under the cold hard glares of a hundred Hordesman while they ate.

"Girl!"

Finnall looked pointedly at her toes, she wasn't sure if the one calling out was for her, but Garrosh made it clear not to consort with the other Orcs unless he expressed his desire for her to do so.

"Hey you!" The assailant made noises appropriate to catching the attention of a dog.

Finnall looked up at the Orc sitting at a table close to the dais; he was leering at her with a mug halfway to his mouth.

"Fancy a tumble?" He leered crudely.

An onslaught of laughter met his words, and Finnall turned red in the face, but not from embarrassment.

"A wolf that would rut a doe before consuming her, I thought this impossible Dagru?" Klondrug said laughing heartily and was joined by many of the others in the room who could hear.

"Dunno about that, Captain, my mount Grippa will hump anything with legs." Dagru Wolf-tongue said through a grin.

"And so you would too Wolf-tongue, and dishonor your family's good name?" Garrosh said with disgust taking his face and twisting it. The expression was shared now by many around him.

"It was a joke, I meant nothing about fucking!" Dagru replied meekly, "only that I wish to challenge the assassin brazen enough to penetrate the Horde's most effective confine, to make an attempt on the Warchief's life, and somehow being significant enough to have around at all hours of the day…and night."

The chuckling ceased, Dagru was nearing putrid and choppy waters, when his ability to swim could be taken away with a word.

"And just how do you know of how all hours of the Warchiefs' is spent Dagru?" Malkorok asked in a dangerous growl, laced with a hiss.

"Only what I've been hearing." Dagru shrugged lowering his eyes.

"What have you been hearing then? Spit it out!" Garrosh fumed, feeling heat in his ears that had nothing to do with the ale he was drinking.

Dagru met the Warchief's eyes boldly. "That you favour her somehow, and that she tends to yer _**every**_ need."

"I hear tell that she is a dangerous sorceress that has you under her spell." A female hissed disapprovingly, from down Dagru's table.

"I surround myself with such stupidity!" Garrosh spat, standing and regarding those in front of him, he pointed at Finnak and snarled, "The girl is no more than Alliance filth and a prisoner, I keep her close to serve me and in doing so she serves the Horde. Let this be a symbol of what is to come!"

A deafening cheer met his words, "An Alliance slave for every lad!" Someone yelled out to pounding on the table.

The smell of food came pouring through the doors causing the frenzy to go up a notch, as it was in the hands of thick bodied females. The prettiest ones in the lot went for the head table, with large platters of choice meats. There was much grabbing of flesh and raucous laughter through catcalls.

Finnall blanched, she was used to soldier's tongue, which could be foul and perverse, but the display here lacked modesty in every sense. Finnall watched an Orc eating from a leg of goat with his free hand roaming up the skirt of a serving Orcess, she attempted fiercely to buck him off without sparing him a glance.

Finnall's eyes followed the lasses up the stairs of the dais; the tallest of the bunch had bright red hair in tiny braids that curled beneath her chin, she was about to serve Garrosh when he motioned to Finnall with a lazy sweep of his hand.

"Have the girl hand me my meats." He said sitting down again.

The Orcess paused and then frowned deeply, "Warchief, it is a privilege to serve at your board, why give this highest honor to a worthless slave?"

"It is no honor for her Goda that is why she must do it. Look at her, does she look like one blessed with privilege?"

Goda took in Finnall's filthy burlap dress, makeshift bandage with blood stains seeping through, and her bare feet with bells around her ankles like cuffs, and then shook her head with a wry grin.

"So the rumours are true, and an attempt was made on your life by this…mongrel?"

Garrosh nodded and swallowed a curse; he had to dishonor himself with a lie even to Goda now, because of the wench.

"We truly are superior to the Alliance if this is the best assassin they had to spare." Goda said handing Finnall the platter of raw venison, looking into her colourful eyes with hatred. "Watch your step mutt." She hissed coldly.

Finnall took the platter from the shrew with a small nod. "I will." Finnall's narrowed eyes didn't leave Goda's until Garrosh grunted for his meat.

There was no serving fork; Finnall grabbed a handful of the bloody meat and plopped it on Garrosh's plate. She went to meet his eyes dispassionately but he wasn't paying her any mind, Finnall followed his gaze to the Orcess Goda pouring ale down the line.

Goda was easy to look upon; her brutish features only enhanced her beauty so that Finnall found her eyes roaming her muscular body, generous hips, and her emerald cleavage that skimmed her chin whenever she lowered her head. It was hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy in her gut.

When Goda was done refilling cups, she snatched the platter from Finnall's hand and retreated down the dais, but not before gifting the Warchief with a sharp toothed grin.

* * *

"I hear you caused quite a stir in the mess hall today." Gout'cok said passing Finnall her bowl of gruel through the bars of her cage.

"Oh yes, you Orcs can be ever so charming." Finnall said with a derisive snort.

Gout'cok chuckled in ernest "We aren't all that bad, some of us at least."

"You aren't, but I cannot say the same of many."

"Give the girl the goods then get out." Garrosh rumbled from near his bed, his patience was at an end for the day, and if he had to smell Gout'cok's musk one more time in the Half-breed's company, he would cripple him.

Finnall glared at Garrosh behind Gout'cok's bowed back. When he left Finnall rounded on him.

"You would have me miserable at all hours of the day and night."

"Mind your lip girl, I can show you true misery, I have shown you great kindness in feeding your impertinent mouth."

"You mean this garbage?" Finnall sneered, scooping up some of the gruel to show him. "You can have it!"

Garrosh plopped down on his bed with a growl. "You should be grateful I don't feed you a blade." He muttered with a wince.

Finnall ate some of the gruel, to refrain from saying something that would tempt the Warchief from removing himself from the bed. Her mouth puckered from the unsavory bitterness of the stuff, perhaps the corn was off, she looked at it closely, it looked fresh as always but the usually sweet mush tasted of turnips. Alas she was hungry, and it was a long day, so she ate a bit of it and left the rest as far from the bars that her arm could reach, for the rodents to enjoy.

The next morning Garrosh woke to silence, it was a strange luxury he had not experienced since the half-breed's untimely arrival. He sat up and ran a hand down his tired face, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a wide yawn. He badly needed to relieve himself, but the chamber pot was on the other side of the room, and he needed the girl up and out of the cage to get there.

Garrosh kicked the bars of her tiny sleeping space, "wake up you useless lump." It was strange to see her lying face down in her own piss; she was usually awake before he was, begging for a chance to use the privy. Garrosh's eyes went to her bowl of unfinished gruel, there was a layer of mold on it, Garrosh frowned, he did not order for her to be given rotten food. He unlocked the door and shook her with his foot. "I said wake up, what's wrong with you wench?"

"Wench?" Garrosh pulled her out by her arm and laid her on her back. She was completely unresponsive, "Finnak!"

She was pale, so pale and even weaker looking than usual, it made him livid, how he hated her weak body; more runt like than proper female. If his existence was to rely on such a pathetic vessel, he had no chance for survival. Garrosh could not let her die! He scooped her up and placed her over his shoulder, before quickly stepping into some cotton breeches; not bothering to properly tie them he stormed from the room barking for Gout'cok.

Garrosh did not feel the pain she was in but he felt the danger of their lives hanging in the balance; it was worse than death.

* * *

**Hey readers, I'm sorry for the wait. I just recently discovered the Beta section and I am almost set up with suitable writers who want to edit, instead of harassing ones who don't. I must take a break since my tendonitis has taken a turn for the worst, I was going to wait on posting chapter 5 until getting some help editing it but who knows when my hands will get better? Chapter 2-5 will get beta'd at some point. For now here's another chapter and I will worry about this story again when I am better. I'm not going to Lie though, part of me wants to just abandon this and go back to reading fanfics instead of writing them...too bad this story is dead set on getting out!  
**


	6. The Other Proudmoore Girl

Chapter six

**The Other Proudmoore Girl**

* * *

_June 14__th__ one week prior to the Midsummer Fire Festival_

Before the Scourge salted Dalaren with cursed minerals the Goldensword Academy of New Age Sorcery was once a spectacular mansion, surrounded by a lush twenty acre forest of medicinal plants, but even magic could not restore the land to its former glory. Finnall as the rightful heir to the prestigious school, which had been a legacy of the Goldensword blood line for four generations traded in her sword for a spade, and without the help of too many spells was able to make the land cultivatable again.

Finnall found the hard labour much more agreeable than knife work and even got down to thatching the roof of her modest stone cottage with her bare hands, it was a feat she was surprised to find herself quite good at. Finnall knew her mother would have been deeply moved to see how the land was scarred but thriving, an example of great suffering and even greater healing, ilnar was a firm orchestrator of renewal and change.

Finnall sighed comfortably; she sat hunkered forward on a small wooden stool used for milking cows in the shade of her house, and polished away the finger marks on her helm. The piece belonged to a handsome set of ceremonial armour, given to her in a discreet ceremony by her even more discreet father. Finnall sniggered at how her reflection contorted on the shinning alloy of one of her most prized possessions, she took the time to maneuver the helm this way and that, further elongating her nose and giving the impression that her eyes were unnaturally close together.

The light tread of a visitor's gait crunched down the loan gravel road that led to her property, Finnall erected herself and scanned the horizon; eventually saw the familiar frame of a dearest comrade.

"Hello Ellein!" Finnall called out, waving her white rag. " I surrender!"

The copper haired half elf replied with a salute considered inappropriate for peace times, and in no time was squatting next to Finnall, picking up the long riffle that was pillowed on the manicured lawn, she inspected it with rust and mud coloured eyes. "Is this a new gun, General?"

Finnall jerked her head in affirmation. "A gift."

"From whom may I ask?"

Finnall breathed huffily on the helm then continued to rub.

"Oh come now, you may tell me!" Ellein insisted firmly, "What a fine piece of craftsmanship, it's from a suitor I presume?" Ellein sounded hopeful.

"You assume much." Finnall shot back, but laughed once deciphering her trusted comrade's tone. She stood and beckoned for her firearm by showing the palm of hand while flexing her fingers.

"And you say so little." Ellein reluctantly handed the gun over to its rightful owner, appearing crestfallen for having lost such an amazing privilege.

Finnall smiled evenly then caressed the unyielding cold steel in her hands, "You wouldn't believe how much easier having a mirror scope makes this, to think I've been doing this naked eyed all these years." Finnall aimed before pulling the trigger; immediately their nostrils were assaulted with the scent of gunpowder, and their ears bombarded by the sound of the gas being expelled from the barrel.

The moment took her back to the days filled with glorious revenge when Ellein was her lieutenant, loyally covering her flank from the undead. In the war they were known to their allies simply as 'Spetznas', and by their enemies as 'Tree knaves.' one bullet burst the knob on her door, she pivoted and hit the bell on her scroll box, pointed up to the sky and moments later a large bird hit the floor scattering dust on their boots.

"Show off!"

"Come off it!" Finnall retorted, hiding her grin as she lowered the firearm. "You still gain pleasure from teasing me."

"It is good for you, gives you character. I want you to always remember it is important to mind your elders." Ellein was well into her sixty's young for a half-elf but still old enough to warrant due respect, even when the only sign of her age were the crinkles around her lips that remained even when she wasn't smiling.

"No one would know your age the way you behave." Finnall replied scooping up the bird. " Dinner." she mused with a wicked grin.

Ellein grinned right back "tell me about him."

"Whom?" Finnall raised an eyebrow curiously.

"You know whom, this wealthy suitor of yours, the one who gave you the long rifle!" said Ellein exasperatedly.

"The gun was not from a suitor Ellein."

"They do say mules are stubborn," Ellein exhaled while shaking her head, "Show me around then, last time I saw this place you were just moving in, by the looks of the gardens you've been a busy little bee."

"Very well, and you are a mule as well, do not forget that." Finnall retorted playfully.

"A much better looking mule at that"

Finnall laughed, grabbing Ellein's arm she led her around the back of the cottage. "Do you remember the herb forest?"

"How could one forget? It was one of the most accomplished in all of Dalaran, that dark sea of black lotus flowers covered a couple acres alone."

"Well I'm not quite there yet but see how the blood thistle is flourishing?"

Ellein nodded and squeezed Finnall's hand, "Oh and will you look at that, Head Mistress Goldensword's favourite, Fire bloom! I remember that gnome Rosie would use it in almost every dish she made."

"I have five hives by the pond amongst the life root, I've been harvesting it for stews. There's still much to be done but I will have the summer to complete it."

"I never thought I'd know the day that you would show passion for this, you always acted as though gardening was a punishment when your mother would make you help us harvest."

" Ah yes!" Finnall giggled easily, "One of the few things she didn't want to use magic for was the most trivial of trials, but those were different days; I only wanted to be a warrior then."

When they finished circling the garden Finnall led Ellein back to the cottage. "The house may not come close to what it was before being shattered, but its home, and it's comfortable."

"Why didn't you let the Kirin Tor restore it for you?"

"My mother did not believe in Goblin banks, we lost everything, and for the Kirin Tor to fork over that much gold would end up being more costly for me in the future, I am better off helping myself."

Ellein made a face declaring she did not comprehend the logic in that, "In any case, you and your mother still have very different tastes." Ellein said once they entered the house. "My memories of your mother's salmon coloured carpets are vivid. How I miss being a student at the academy. I've said it before and I will say it again, I'm sorry Finnall."

Finnall's eyes shone and she turned away sharply, "There is no use for it anymore."

"I know… Whatever happened to Proudsword, where is your mother's Unicorn?"

"Stabled in the common stable down the road, I haven't built him a home just yet."

"But of course. Well I must say Retirement suit's you Finnall, you've put on some good weight," began Ellein.

"Who says I am in retirement friend?"

"That fattening rump of yours, you'd make an impressive roast you know!"

Finnall cupped her backside with a wicked grin, "Were you anyone else, I'd smite you down where you stand."

"Oh, and with what army?"

Using a speed that rendered the weapon invisible, Finnall pulled a pistol from her hoister and pointed it beside Ellein's ear with a triumphant smile "This one."

"You may have a quick draw and the aim of a god, but you can't win against me in hand to hand combat, you know this."

Elein unlike Finnall she had no qualms about using magic to win her battles, she specialized in hand to hand combat, and was more than capable of casting atrocious spells that would make a Blood Elf drool from hunger, she wore her red hair in two thick braids down to her knees and tied to the ends of them were spiked wooden balls used as bludgeons.

"I know you can't defeat me without magic," Finnall teased, "And I know that I can have you hearing Harpies for the next hour." She flicked Ellein's ear with the end of the gun.

Ellein's ease with the situation was from experience, she and Finnall often dealt this way, and it was rare for anyone to actually get hurt. "I thought you lived only for peace now that we have our precious Dalaran back; peaceful women do not draw fire on their friends." said Ellein.

"In a perfect world fighting would be strictly a sport." Finnall declared, putting her gun back in the holster on her hip chuckling, "Don't worry friend, the gun wasn't loaded… This time."

"Are you quite through now?"

Finnall nodded and led Ellein into the largest room in the house used for both dinning and a common area.

"Good, I have been craving your cooking for quite some time.''

"Oh? It is only I have this inkling that you did not just come for my food."

Ellein shrugged and gave nothing away but a roguish smile.

Finnall exhaled sharply then left her friend to get comfortable, returning from the underground pantry holding chicken drumsticks she stewed that morning in honey and garlic butter, a bit of spiced onion cheese bread, and melon juice to wash it down.

Finnall plopped herself down at the head of the table and propped one of her legs over the arm of her chair, swilling her drink around a cup while looking deep into its contents "Tell me, where you have been Ellein? Why are you not enjoying the fruit of our labours?"

Ellein chewed on a chunk of bread thoughtfully. "The Silver covenant has sent me on some important missions; I do not get to hang around in one place."

Finnall snorted snidely "I did not know the covenant was accepting us halfies for anything other than vending, but I suppose being an errand girl is a respectable job."

"I am far more than an errand girl, Finnall" Ellein replied sternly, "there are only a handful with the old prejudice, you know who leads us and that her mate is human. Are you not aware that a lot of the coven speaks highly of you, in fact they speak highly of many of our band, but mostly of you, they have sent me here to reason with you?"

"Do they? Have they." Finnall snorted yet again and took a healthy sip from her goblet.

"Of course, and since when do you care about such matters as petty as racial politics? I thought you a warrior?"

"I care not! I just know that race is third only to the power one wields to do spell work, and who you know for serious influence in the silver covenant; I find it insulting."

Ellein merely shrugged, what Finnall said had merit, and she had no qualms about hearing the truth, and the truth was you weren't much in Dalaran when you refused to use magic. "What about you then Finnall? By the looks of it I see you have been enjoying your gardening, getting fat off your homemade cheese, and squandering your talent on shooting your own house. What are your plans regarding the future; will you at least join ranks with the Kirin Tor and serve our country?"

"I have no desire to lose my outstanding rank as a General to serve the magocracy once more as a mere bastard foot soldier. Besides, I see no reason to fight now with the Lich king and Deathwing defeated."

" I have never heard you sound so bitter, surely you don't mean to stay here in your cabin for the rest of your life gardening? Why the change of heart? Why has our victory cost you your spirit?

What if my aspirations are different now?" Finnall folded her arms across her chest.

I mean you no offence but besides slinging I cant see anything else suiting you, word has been spread that you seek honourless mercenary work, I know you enjoy your freedom and you have always had a thirst for rebellion, but I do not believe that true, especially now, just look at you now, hair loose like a maid, and wearing a dress and apron."

Finnall pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed deeply, "Whoever is spreading these rumours about me are correct for once. I was considering mercenary work, even pulled in a few coins for some seedy assignments that I am not proud of, and are completely off the record- so do not go to your precious covenant and bring them tales about me! ,

"You know I would not my friend. So you will partake in seedy assignments but not join a respectable force whose primary function is for the good of Azeroth?"

"Oh codfish, all the Covenant aspires to do is rid the world of the Horde, just as the Horde hopes to do with us, but I see things clear as rain now, after the Cataclysm I have realised there is bigger threats then the stupid war between the Alliance and the Horde. A feud that cost The life of my father."

"I see, well I still think you ought to take on more useful work, Do not think I am not proud of you for restoring this land but-"

"I've been called to court by King Varian Wrynn himself. Finnall wiped the sweet garlicky gravy of the stewed chicken from the bottom of her bowl with a piece of bread, and waited for the inevitable shriek.

"By the power of the most holy Light, is he the mysterious suitor?" Ellein squealed jovially.

"Have I not told you that the gun is not from a suitor?"

"I will stop asking once you tell me who gave it over, it's very fine, and I just want to know who would spend so big a bag of gold on you."

"The King of Stormwind did, but not as a suitor, I do not know why, I've never met him."

Ellein looked puzzled, but only for a second, "Did he bring you the gun personally?"

"Of course not, I told you I've never met him! A Dwarf from stormwind arrived with an official scroll with the King's seal summoning me to the castle at my earliest convenience; this was two weeks ago."

"Been busy have you?" Ellein chuckled "What would he want you for court for? You are no songbird; I doubt you even have the dresses required for those aristocrats."

"That's true, everything was made cold by the hands of the dead, but I have a bit of gold set aside to buy silk if it comes to that.

"Perhaps he means to make you a lady; you are the daughter of Daelin Proudmoore after all, bastard or not. Maybe he wishes to finally honour you with a proper title."

"I don't know, I think bastard is a fine enough title," Finnall remarked with a twisted smile. "I think it is probably a mission of some sort, I will be going to Stormwind for the Firefest, and I will answer his summons then."

"Ah, so that's why you were polishing your ceremonial suit. As per tradition for soldier celebrating in stormwind city for the Fire festival; you will cook like a stuffed goose, tis a silly ritual, be sure not to drink too much and catch the faints."

"It's all in good fun, who is the miserable one now?" replied Finnall chuckling.

"It is good I have caught you before you left, it might be a whole decade before I see you around here again. They will pull you in with fine things and make you another pampered court brat!"

"No such thing will happen if I can help it! I worked hard to be here again and I do not mean to leave for long."

"When you return you should join the Covenant we could use a sniper of your calibre, we still call you the best shot in the half elf race."

"Was I not clear? I do not mean to take orders for the sake of someone else's vision; you know my goals I'll make war by my own reckoning, for a just cause or to defend Dalaran from a worthy foe. I will not join the red and blue fued.''

"What has happen to you?"

"My place in the war was done out of duty and for vengeance, I believe with the Scourge defeated there can be balance between the rival factions, the Horde has just as much claim over the victory as any, and we owe them and them us!"

Ellein scoffed loudly "Oh you neutrals are a delight!"

"I'm not saying there will ever be unconditional peace between the red and blue flags, I'm not an idiot like my half sister, but perhaps the need to rebuild will maintain the ceasefire, at least for now."

"Obviously you are not well versed in the heart of the new Warchief," Ellien said darkly, looking around as though Hellscream had spies in the very walls. "I have heard troubling rumours that Dalaran will not remain neutral for long, not with the new Warchief of the Horde making open threats against the night elves, not with the King's growing frustration with the Orcs, you neuts' will have to choose a side eventually, Hellscream will make it so none of us bares a choice.

"Perhaps…" Finnall scowled at the mere implication, "If the Horde dare try to step foot here with evil intent my gun will answer! Garrosh Hellscream, the son of Grom, what an odd choice for Thrall to have made, I hear he hates anyone not loyal to the Horde."

"These days try every being that isn't an Orc or wolf, you do know he's expelled nearly everyone who isn't an Orc from his capitol, I hear he even has humans kidnapped from villages and eats them alive, and that he bathes in the blood of Dranei virgins like his father once did."

Finnall eyed her friend with disbelieve, "Surely you know those are but lies. Truly he sounds like a vicious fool , I doubt he'll be Warchief for long, if I had to make a choice as of now I still favour the Alliance."

"A wise choice," Ellein began matter-of-factly, "The Horde are a miserable lot, and you would do well to avoid them." She held up her goblet and toasted that thought.

Thanks for reading


End file.
